


Love and Psyche

by Blankfreeze1958



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blankfreeze1958/pseuds/Blankfreeze1958
Summary: It's Christmastime 1950 when Scott, sees her for the first time in a pub.She a bit of a mystery and seems to fit into many names, play many roles, but as he gets to know her, he finds that he only cares about one;Tessa.
Relationships: Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Comments: 114
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I read a quote and then ended up building this story around it.  
> It's kind of a sappy love story from the very beginning but  
> with what I hope is a bit of intrigue and mystery.  
> It's written almost entirely from Scott's pov, though I plan to have one chapter with Tessa's.  
> I hope you like it :)

Early December, 1950

Paris, France

* * *

Scott walks into the pub and shakes the snow off his boots. It’s a frigid night in Paris and his hands were nearly frozen off from carrying his violin. 

He makes his way over to the bar and carefully leans his violin on the counter before ordering a drink. His violin is his prized possession, having little else to his name, he acquired it from an old man in the heart of Paris who’d seen Scott down on his luck and had given it to him either to sell or to learn to play. Scott had chosen the latter. _Teach a man to fish_ had been the old man’s logic, though he hadn’t actually taught Scott how to play. He’d spent many hours teaching himself, and happily, he became quite good. It sort of just came naturally to him, the music just seemed to flow out of him. 

He’s never been here before, choosing to frequent more _underground_ music scenes where he feels the company is more his style, but he’s been hearing quiet a bit of buzz lately about this particular pub and how their live music on Fridays is quite impressive, so he’s decided to brave the sea of posh habitués and come see for himself. It’s warm and the the lights are dimmed and he can already hear that the musicians on stage are indeed quite talented. It’s overall a very cheerful atmosphere, fitting of the Christmas season, with tables full of patrons, ladies in their dress and gentlemen in their suits. Scott smiles to himself as he thinks of how poorly he fits in among this crowd. They’re all clearly upperclass, a bit too high society for his tastes, not to mention his French is _terrible_ and he knows they’d simply turn their noses up at him. 

He takes his drink from the barkeep with a “Merci.” And heads over toward the stage, navigating through thick clouds of cigarette smoke until he takes a seat quietly in the front corner where nobody will bother him. They probably think he’s the entertainment, sitting there sipping on a drink before his set, seeing as he’s got his violin with him. He chuckles to himself. If only he could be so lucky. 

It’s been hard lately, trying to pay rent as a street performer or playing infrequent gigs in tourist bars.

He glances up, taking in his direct milleu. There’s a couple just behind him who sound like they’re bickering in whispers so quiet Scott can’t quite make out what they’re saying. There’s a grand looking chandelier over his head that he’s sure would kill him if it decided to give up and fall on him, and there’s a woman who has a seat at the table adjacent to him, turned toward the stage. She holds his attention. Scott can make out her profile. She’s quite beautiful. Breathtaking, actually. She has dark hair pulled back in a bun, with shiny sapphire earrings in her ears to match the colour of her silken dress that hits her mid-thigh and sports a square neckline. She shrugs off her thick black overcoat and lets it drape across her chair. He watches her fan the smoke from in front of her and crinkle her nose, which makes him laugh. At first guess he’d have thought she was just as stuffy as the rest of the crowd here tonight, but that certainly wasn’t in character. 

He waits for a gentleman to join her. Surely a lady like _that_ isn’t here alone. 

But she’s gotten her own drink and she sips it delicately, her fingers adorned with several golden rings, of which, he notes, none of them are wedding bands.

He directs his attention back to the music after a short while. He enjoys being here, he likes to switch things up occasionally and he’s impressed with the artists that grace this cavalier little room with their music. Scott comes to their shows to appreciate art, but also to socialise with the musicians afterward, hoping that one of these times he might have the opportunity to play with them. Just one chance is all he needs to land a solid gig. He knows he’s good enough to be right up there with them. He watches the violin player specifically, his clever movements with the bow. There’s a certain way French violinists play and Scott’s tried mimicking it but has ultimately decided that his own way… the _Canadian Way_ , as he’s amusedly coined it, will separate him from his competition. Unfortunately, especially now after the war, the French aren’t exactly fond of expats even if they might come with a bit of musical piquancy. 

A man breezes past him toward the woman he’d been watching earlier and asks her if she’d like some company. 

“No, thank you.” She replies softly, hardly able to look him in the eyes. Scott’s distracted by the flush on her cheeks, when suddenly he realises that she’d replied in English. 

His French comprehension is quite good, it’s the expressive aspect that he struggles with, so sometimes he doesn’t immediately realise when someone’s speaking English because it’s out of context, especially in his usual haunts. He cocks his head. He supposes she doesn’t quite look French… whatever that means. He finds there’s a certain something… He hates to be so cliché as to use the term je ne sais quoi, but he finds it’s the only way he can describe that he knows she doesn’t quite seem French now that he’s looking more closely. 

He’s curious now, and even though she’d just turned down that gentleman who’d tried to join her, he can’t help himself. He wants to know her. 

He stands and carries his violin in one hand, his drink in the other and makes his way over to her table. 

“Excuse me.” He says. And, though his tone was quite gentle, she startles. “Oh, please excuse me.” He repeats, sorry to have frightened her. 

She lays a hand upon her chest. She looks even more breathtaking up close, with dazzling green eyes that seem to bore into Scott’s very being, lips like a delicate spring strawberry and skin as buttery and white as fresh cream. 

“Oh.” She says softly, her eyes darting over his figure. “No that’s alright…” She cocks her head at him and he smiles as it seems she’s puzzling over him the same way he’s puzzling over her. “You’re American.” She observes. 

Scott laughs. “No.” He says. “Canadian.” 

“Oh.” She says softly, her eyes widening. 

“You’re American?” He asks, quickly adding, “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry. I heard you speaking to that other man and I just don’t hear a lot of native English around these parts.” 

Her strawberry lips turn up in a slight smile. “I find when I speak English people tend to leave me alone more quickly.” She says smoothly, her eyes shimmering.

Scott grins. 

“I’ve pried my way into _your_ passport, fair enough that you should do the same to mine.” She says. Her voice is sweet and soft. “I’m Canadian as well. Toronto born.” 

Scott beams and laughs. “Me too.” He says. He can’t quite believe the coincidence but he feels that she might find the bubble of excitement a bit boyish so he clears his throat to sound more serious. “May I ask what’s brought you here?” 

The woman looks down, her long lashes shrouding her eyes as she fiddles with the stem of her wine glass. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.” She says. 

“Of course.” He responds quickly, though he’s dying to know. 

She’s looking off at the stage now and Scott feels like maybe she wants him to leave, but he can’t quite bring himself to move away from her. 

When it’s clear that he’s not moving she turns to him. “Do you play?” She asks, eyeing his violin. 

“Oh.” Scott smiles softly and nods. “Yes.” 

“What kind of music?” She asks. 

Scott chuckles. “A little bit of everything.” He says, and she smiles at him. 

“Can’t choose just one?” 

He shrugs. “There’s a lot out there. I don’t want to limit myself.” 

Her smile fades for a moment and her mind seems to wander elsewhere before she shakes her head and clears her throat. 

“I could play for you.” He says, and immediately feels stupid, but he can already feel the way his fingers would move for her, _Ballad for la Dame with Strawberry Lips_. 

She laughs, much to Scott’s delight. There are few things he enjoys more than a woman’s laughter and this particular woman’s laughter is _electric_. “Here?” She asks. “I think we might bea bit disruptive.” 

Scott grins. “A bit of disruption never hurt anyone, but if you insist on being so very _polite_.” 

The woman sucks on her bottom lip and Scott wonders if maybe she tastes like strawberries too. “It’s important to be polite.” She says, almost in a whisper. 

The corner of Scott’s lip turns up. “I’ve always thought that politeness was just organised indifference.” 

The woman looks up at him playfully. “Valéry never got to meet _me_.” She says softly, and Scott’s brow raises. He’s impressed that she’s picked apart his reference. “Do _you_ find me indifferent?” She asks.

Scott bows his head and lets out a little laugh. He’s quite taken with this woman. “No.” He says, “You certainly don’t seem indifferent to me.” 

She smiles satisfactorily and Scott thinks it’s perhaps the prettiest smile he’s ever seen. “But you _do_ seem polite.” He tells her. 

Her smile doesn’t waver and her green eyes flash at him. “Doesn’t that prove my point then?” 

Scott stutters a laugh. Never in his life has he met a woman like this. Has she just single handedly destroyed Paul Valéry’s logic? “It does.” He nods.

She simply shrugs, her delicate collarbones hollowing and attracting Scott’s attention as she turns back to the performance.

“Would you mind if I kept you company for some time?” He asks. “It’ll keep the others at bay.” He looks around the room to see several other men staring at the woman predatorily like they’re wolves who’ve just stumbled upon their next kill. 

She looks up at him and her eyes change. She glances around the room and must see the other men because she nods quickly and discreetly and Scott takes a seat. 

“I’d like to listen a while, if that’s alright.” She says. Scott nods and leans his violin on the table stand. He watches the way she listens. He’s gotten quite good at that - watching people listening. It helps him read his audience, take cues for what they’d like to hear, but much like the other traits of this woman, he just can’t get a read on her. She seems to be paying particular attention to the bass, her brow raising when she hears a deep chord, but then she perks up at a guitar riff and the low, almost indistinguishable lull of the clarinet when it plays a particularly striking note. He wonders if she knows more about music than she’s let on. Come to think of it, she clearly knows quite a bit about a lot of things she doesn’t seem to want to let on. 

“Do _you_ play?” He asks, unable to keep his curiosity to himself any longer. 

She looks over at him and he’s obviously interrupted her thoughts. He feels like he should apologise, but he finds her _polite_ displeasure incredibly endearing. 

“I don’t.” She says softly. 

“No?” He asks. “Well you have an ear for it, I can tell.” 

She simply smiles and rests her delicate cheek on her hand, turning her attention back to the stage. 

Scott’s resolved to let her listen this time. He doesn’t want to be a bother to her, he wants more than anything for her to appreciate his company. It’s been a long time since he’s been in the presence of such a delightfully interesting person. 

He tries his best to pay attention to the music. It’s why he’s here after all, but she just keeps drawing him back in. It’s nothing really, just the way she sighs, the way her eyes dart across the room, the way her skin glows in the light, the way her hair frames her face, curls at the end, seems methodically pulled back and yet spontaneously chic. It’s nothing and everything at once. He could compose epics about each part of her, knit them all together and still be inspired. He’s only just met her but she’s irresistible and he needs to know more. But it’s she that speaks next. 

“Where do you play?” She asks him, and he feels butterflies in his stomach worse than he’s ever had in all his years, including when he’d shipped off to war. He doesn’t want to lie. He’s never been one to concern himself with status, but she’s clearly upper class and he doesn’t want her to write him off either. But he remembers her scrunched up nose, the way she speaks English to get people to leave her alone, how she challenges dead philosophers with that sarcastic tone of hers, and he decides to take a chance and be truthful. 

“Here and there.” He says. “Sometimes at a pub. Sometimes on the street. I’m trying to work myself into something more consistent, I just need someone to hear me out.” 

The woman nods. “I understand that.” She says, and something about her voice tells Scott that she truly does. She’s not judging him. 

“Can I ask why you’re in Paris?” She says as she turns her full attention back to him. 

He sighs softly. “The long and short of it is that I disagree with the notion of war.” 

She smiles softly. “War: a massacre of people who don't know each other for the profit of people who know each other but don't massacre each other.” She quotes Valéry with a sly smile on her lips and Scott feels his heart seize up in his chest. She’s _perfection_. 

“Exactly.” He chokes out before composing himself. “So you agree with him on some points.” 

Her smile widens. “He has some very good ideas.” She says. “That one is one of the tops.” 

His expression relaxes. She feels like a friend. He feels like he can trust her. She does understand. 

“Most people would just call me a coward.” He says, trying to make a joke of his insecurity about it before finishing off his drink. 

Her face drops. “I think it’s far braver to abide by your own convictions rather than blindly following whatever duties society thrusts upon you under the guise of patriotism.” 

Scott blinks several times, taken aback by the way she’s so perfectly conveyed feelings that he’s never quite been able to find the words for. Moreover, he’s thrilled that she might feel the same way, might not think of him as the horrible deserter he sometimes feels he is. 

She winks at him and he feels like the butterflies in his stomach have turned into eagles. 

She sits up straighter and Scott can’t help but let his eyes drop to her waist, travel upward to her breast, the long, white column of her neck, more regal than the obelisk in the Palace de la Concorde. He lets his eyes linger on her lips for a moment, sees the very corner of them upturn and then meets her eyes which seem to be made of deeper and richer emeralds than he’s ever seen in a jewelry store. 

“Perhaps you should take up philosophy.” He suggests, trying to be smooth. 

She chuckles and scrunches her nose in that impossibly adorable way. “I’d think myself in circles.” She says, and it’s refreshingly honest. 

“Can I ask why you’re still in France?” She says. 

He nods. “They’re still working things out back in Canada. I’m waiting for them to approve my immigration.” He says, quoting what he’d been told at the embassy. “They’re not keen on getting it done any time soon.” He says. “Can’t leave France either because I don’t actually have a passport.” 

“Oh.” Tessa says, looking genuinely stumped. “I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugs. “It’s alright.” He says, smiling and gesturing to his violin. “I keep myself entertained.

She offers him a smile back and it’s easily the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. 

“Can I ask your name?” He says softly, mesmerised by her. He needs to know what perfection sounds like. 

She opens her pretty mouth to speak but they’re interrupted suddenly by the guitar player on stage. He speaks in French, “We thank you all for coming out tonight, especially on such a freezing December evening. We have a final song for you, but we can’t take credit for it ourselves.” He gestures toward the woman sitting next to Scott and he sees her cheeks turn pink as a strawberry to match her lips. “Mademoiselle Virtue, would you please join us?” 

Scott does a double take as the woman rises from her seat and joins the musicians on stage. She’s as shiny and bright as a diamond as she perches elegantly on a small stool. She offers the guitarist a smile that Scott thinks would send him into a tizzy if she ever offered it to him, and the guitarist starts strumming a sad, sweet melody. 

He watches the woman’s eyes close, watches the way she sways with the beat. She can _feel_ the music inside of her, Scott can tell just from looking at her. There are so few people who can actually do that. 

When she opens her eyes again, they’re darker, and Scott thanks the heavens he’s sitting in the front row so he can be privy to all of her nuanced grace. 

Her green eyes pierce right through him when she glances at him quickly, smiling softly to herself before she begins to sing. 

And when Scott hears her voice he swears he’s died and gone to heaven, for surely this woman is an actual _angel_ , the way she’s singing. 

Her voice is clear as a cathedral bell and yet as she shapes those perfect lips of hers in the wonderfully sensual ways that the French requires, he detects a slight, _impossibly_ sexy rasp. He finds himself closing his eyes for a moment, trying to decide if he’ll ever hear anything so beautiful again in his life when he remembers that not only is she singing this song more beautifully than he’s ever heard anyone sing _anything,_ but she’s also written it with her own lovely hand. She certainly has no issue with expressive French, and her accent is almost indistinguishable from a native speaker. She paints such a vidid picture with her words. Scott can see her, sitting in a park, watching a bluebird flit along, relating it somehow to the things that have happened to her, the things he’d give anything now to be privileged to, and going home and pulling out a leather notebook - he somehow knows she uses the real leather kind. He sees her in her slip, sitting criss cross on her bed, her exquisite dark hair let down, falling over her shoulders, contrasting with her crème fraîche skin, writing her sorrows away, trying to transfer it all to the pages of her little notebook, as if they could be a surrogate for the pain she carries. And then he’s torn from his thoughts when her angelic voice hardens, and the song turns from melancholic to tragic. He watches the emotion pour from her in a way somehow feels like a surrender. She has tears in her eyes as she sings the last words with her sweet voice, _et il fait froid, et je veux rentrer à la maison._ Her voice fades out with the song and Scott realises he’s hardly been breathing. 

The room bursts into applause, and the woman smiles shyly. She meets Scott’s eye and he knows he looks like an imbecile with his jaw hanging open but he’s powerless to do anything about it, especially when she winks at him, a sly smile pulling at those strawberry lips. She nods once to the audience and then to the musicians she shares the stage with before standing and carefully descending. A number of people try to approach her but she hurries back over to her table where Scott feels his heart beating out of his chest. 

“Madamoiselle Virtue. Ms. Virtue” Scott says, repeating the name the guitarist had called her. She looks up at him. 

“That was-“ 

“I’m sorry, I need to be going.” She says, quickly grabbing up her coat and slipping from the table. 

“Hey-“ Scott says, hurrying after her, feeling the gaze of the room set on the two of them. He forgets his violin and quickly turns back to get it before he rushes out of the pub after her but by the time he gets outside she’s already gone. Disappeared into the blustery Paris streets. 


	2. Chapter 2

Virtue, Virtue, Virtue. He thinks about her name as he walks to and from his usual spots that week. He thinks about it as he chops up the vegetables for his dinner. He thinks about it while he brushes his teeth in the morning and when he plays the old songs that he’s known by heart for ages now. 

He thinks about _her._

He wishes he knew her first name, but he ponders Virtue for now. He thinks about their philosophy discussion. _Virtue._ Aristotle had twelve of them; courage, temperance, liberality, magnificence, magnanimity, ambition, patience, friendliness, truthfulness, wit, modesty, justice. Scott’s sure there would be thirteen of them if Aristotle had ever met that woman. _His_ Virtue. He means no disrespect to the great philosopher, but he’s quite sure he would be dizzyingly happy with just the thirteenth Virtue. The woman with emerald eyes and strawberry lips. 

He wonders if she’s thought of him at all. Had she even liked him? He’s not sure, but the way she’d winked at him… he’s inclined to think she may have. 

He returns to that same bar every night that week but she’s not there until next Friday. When he sees her his heart skips a beat. He stands back and watches her for a while. She’s completely unassuming, sipping her wine, watching the musicians, turning away the men that come to her table - and many come.

He bides his time, not wanting to seem too eager, but completely consumed with her. She’s a lovely little mystery that he wants nothing more than to solve. 

When he does approach her, it’s gently. He doesn’t want to startle her as he’d done last time. “Ms. Virtue.” He says quietly. 

She looks up at him and for a moment he thinks she doesn’t recognise him as her expression doesn’t change. 

But then she says, “No violin this time.” And Scott lets out a breath. How pathetic he’d feel having thought about her all week if she hadn’t even remembered his existence. 

“No.” He says, smiling. “I went home first.” In fact he’d gone home to fix his hair and put on his best cologne.

She nods and turns her attention back to the stage. 

Scott stands there awkwardly for a moment, unable to tell if she wants him there or not. His voice is caught in his throat and, though he’s normally quite confident and talkative, he’s at a loss for words at the moment, in both English and French. 

“Would you sit with me?” She asks suddenly, her green eyes flashing at him just as brightly as he’d remembered. 

He lets out a breath and nods. “Yes.” He says. “I - of course.” He takes the open seat at her table. 

He watches her for a moment, her attention on the stage. She has her hair down this time, her long, dark locks curling loosely at the ends. She’s pinned the sides back, freeing up her lovely face which looks a bit flushed at the moment. Scott wonders if he’s done that and smiles at the possibility. 

In her ears she has small gold hoops, and her dress is a deep green, like her eyes. It’s slim-fitting and Scott admires her figure, following her curves all the way down from her neck to her ankles. She looks positively breathtaking. 

“I didn’t know if I’d see you here again.” She says, and Scott realises she’s looking at him now, watching the way he’s watching her. 

He feels his cheeks grow hot and his eyes dart up to meet hers, worried she’ll be offended, but she seems to be smirking slightly, which both sets him at ease and arouses him. 

“You left without saying goodbye.” He tells her. 

“I do apologize…” She says, “I just don’t like speaking to people.” 

“After you sing?” He asks. 

She takes a long sip of wine. “At all.” 

He smiles to himself. “You speak to _me_.”

She looks down at the table momentarily, her fingertips running gently along the stem of her wine glass. “My name is Tessa.” She says quietly. 

Scott feels his heart pounding in his chest. _Tessa_. _Perfection._ “That’s a beautiful name.” He says, his voice gruff. 

She gives a quick shake of her head. “I don’t like the way it sounds in a French accent.” She says, disappointedly. 

“I don’t have a French accent, Tessa.” Scott says. 

She looks down at the table again and laughs at his boldness. He grins and sits up straighter. “I’m Scott.” He says. “I don’t like the way my name sounds in English _or_ French accents.” 

Tessa looks up at him, eyes twinkling and she laughs sweetly, her cheeks raising and crinkling her eyes girlishly. Scott beams at her. 

“You have a beautiful voice, Tessa.” He says softly. “And a beautiful mind.” _And a beautiful face_ , _and a beautiful body…_ he thinks to himself. He’s not quite so bold as to say that out loud just yet.

She blushes, her cheeks colouring like two strawberry macaroons. 

“I mean it.” He says, leaning closer. “You’re very talented. Do you know that?” 

She shakes her head. “I just enjoy it, that’s all.” She says, as if it’s nothing. 

“How long have you been singing?” He asks, changing the subject as compliments clearly make her uncomfortable. 

“Oh.” She sighs. “Two years. Since I’ve been in France.” 

Scott smiles to himself. It’s the first time he hasn’t felt like he’s needed to drag information out of her. 

“And how long have you been writing?” He asks as a followup. 

She looks sad, suddenly. “Just since I’ve been here.” She says.

Scott chuckles. “Was Canada uninspiring for you?” 

He’s joking, but she doesn’t seem to find it funny. 

“I loved Canada.” She says quietly, bringing her hands to her lap shyly. “I… I love it here, too but… in Canada I got to dance. Here I don’t dance.” 

“You like dancing best.” Scott observes. 

Tessa nods. “Yes.” She says softly. 

“You know, last time I checked, the French dance too.” He smiles at her and she offers him the smallest one back. 

“Yes.” She says. “But _I_ don’t. Not anymore.”

“Why not?” He asks. He knows he’s prying but he’s too curious and their conversations are too honest for him to refrain. 

She drops her head and sighs, looking down at her lap. 

“I’d dance with you.” He says, sorry he’s clearly made her upset. “We could dance right here.” 

She looks up at him and huffs a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She says. 

Scott’s own smile grows when he sees how he’s made her smile once more. “Why not? Too distracting? I forgot how _polite_ you are.” He teases her and is rewarded with another laugh, a breathy one this time that he wants to hear a thousand times over. 

She shakes her head. “No it’s not that…” 

“Think I couldn’t keep up?” He asks. 

She laughs again, her eyes bright once more. “No.” She says. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful dancer. You look very…” She lets her eyes rake over him for a moment before looking back in his and blushing. “Capable.” She says. 

Scott lets out a breath. He’s smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. 

“I don’t dance anymore.” She says, seriously. “That’s all.” 

Scott can tell from her tone that she’s done talking about it and he nods, respecting her wishes. 

“Well singing and writing suit you just fine.” He tells her. 

They’re interrupted then as she’s called up on stage. 

She gives him a quick smile, which he returns, along with a, “Break a leg, T.” 

She flushes at the nickname and turns away from him quickly to make her way onstage. 

Tonight she sings a sad, slow song. It’s an extended metaphor about a body as a ship. She has that same haunting voice that Scott’s been hearing in his dreams all week. He could listen to her for ages and never tire of her. 

_Tessa Virtue._ He thinks. _No longer dances, but sings like an angel._ He wonders how gorgeous she is to watch dance if that was her first love. 

_C'est juste une rêverie fine et pâle_

_Pris en sandwich entre la mer et le ciel._

_Et je suis une jeune fille si craintive_

_Que je n'ai pas encore lâché mes cordes_

_à suivre dans le sillage de ceux plus courageux que moi._

She finishes singing and the music plays her out, her lyrics reverberating in Scott’s head, sad and sweet, just the way she seems to be. Scott watches her with his whole heart on his sleeve. He’s sure he looks as lovelorn as he feels. He’s only just met her, knows next to nothing about her, and yet, she’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever known. 

She picks her coat up from the chair and gives him a curt nod as she heads out of the bar quickly, just as she’d done last week. But this time Scott’s ready. He follows her out onto the street, hoping it’s not too much. 

“Tessa.” He calls after her. She stops in her tracks and turns to him. She’s expected it this time as well. She looks around nervously before tucking herself into the portico of the neighbouring building. Scott joins her in the small space. 

“It’s cold out.” He says, his breath a ghost between them. 

She nods, buttoning her coat up quickly. She’d left in such a hurry that she’d not even put it on properly. Her fingers get too numb and cold by the time she reaches the top button and Scott sees her give up and stick her hands in her pockets to warm them. 

He smiles gently at her. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful that was. Even more beautiful than last time.” He takes a deep breath. “I think you’re amazing.” 

She flushes again and Scott finds it incredibly becoming, especially when her nose has now joined in on the game thanks to the cold. 

She shakes her head. “Scott.” She says, “Please.” 

“Ok.” He whispers. “No more compliments.” He moves his hands up toward her and she flinches back quickly, watching him carefully.

“I’m sorry.” He says immediately regretting his action. He’s never known someone to recoil that readily from a movement, never known someone quite so weary. “I’m sorry, I just…” He lowers his hands slowly to her top button. “I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Sorry.” She breathes, and she says it just the same way he does, in that decidedly _Canadian_ way that has Scott’s heart bursting. 

He buttons her coat for her and lowers his hands to his pockets. “Can I walk you home?” He asks. It’s late and he doesn’t like the idea of her walking home alone. 

But she shakes her head. “No.” She says, quickly, and then adds a “Thank you.”, as an afterthought and Scott can tell it’s because she feels the need to be polite. 

He nods, smiling softly. “Ok.” He says. He’s not going to push her. 

Neither of them move for a moment, they just watch each other, their breath intermingling between them in the cold.

Scott swallows hard and decides to break the silence. “I like you.” He says. “And I think you could like me too.”

She gives him a look, fire in her eyes, and says in a whisper, “I don’t like anyone.” 

It’s a bit of a thrill, he must admit to have her speak to him so rawly, her politeness suddenly stripped away. But it also makes him sad as she says it almost defensively and Scott can tell she has scars hidden under her cool exterior. 

“Then let me give you this.” He says. 

She watches him carefully, and he moves slowly so that she can see. He pulls his hand from his pocket and offers her a scrap of paper. 

She meets his eyes, that Emerald glowing bright, and he reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, to his semi-surprise, and he lifts it, turning it so her palm is up. Her skin is warm despite the cold. He sets a scrap of paper in the cradle of her palm, closing her fingers around it and raising it slightly as he ducks his head his lips hovering just over her delicate fingers. He waits for her to pull away, waits for her to protest, but when she doesn’t, he lowers his lips to her hand and kisses her fingers. They’re even softer than he’d imagined.

She watches him with her lips parted as he takes his time, his lips puckering slowly, caressing her hand gently. 

She sighs softly.

“I play here every Monday and Wednesday.” He says quietly as he straightens back up, losing himself in her eyes, in her stare. His forehead nearly touches hers, their noses brush. “You don’t have to like me. But if you come I’ll play a song for you.”

Her eyes soften and, satisfied to see her relax slightly, Scott steps back. 

She stares at him a moment longer before breathing a soft, “Goodnight.” 

Scott smiles at her. “Goodnight, Tessa.” He says, and he steps aside to let her out of the small entryway. He watches her walk all the way down the street until he can no longer see her before leaving to his own apartment. 


	3. Chapter 3

He’d hoped he’d see her Monday or Wednesday, but he can’t say he’s terribly surprised that he hasn’t. He tries not to be too broken up about it. Perhaps she’s just busy, perhaps she’d meant to come but other things had come up. He stays later than he normally does on both days by an extra two hours, playing in the plaza, hopeful to see her beautiful face in the daylight, but alas, no luck. 

Friday, then. He looks forward to seeing her and hearing her. He wonders what kind of etherial reverie she’ll present him with this week. He longs to read her poetry, longs to watch her write it, to see her brilliant mind at work, to see her string together ordinary words into fairy chains and dreamscapes and watch the way her eyes light up as it all comes together. 

But she’s not there on Friday. He sits in the front row at the table she normally occupies, and waits through the entire set. No Mademoiselle Tessa Virtue. 

He talks to the guitarist afterward, asks if he’s heard from her. 

“Not a word.” He says with a shrug, like it’s nothing. “It happens. La dame qui disparaît.” He says. _The disappearing woman._

She’s a lot of things, Scott thinks to himself. He’s so distracted about Tessa’s whereabouts that it doesn’t even cross his mind to ask about joining them to play some time. He simply goes home, disappointed. 

* * *

Two weeks later, and Scott’s heard nothing from Tessa. She hasn’t been to see him play, hasn’t been at the pub. Scott worries for her, hopes that wherever she is she’s alright. He wonders if he’d know if she weren’t. 

He’s had a hard time playing lately. He can’t seem to focus, can’t quite find the joy in it, can’t find a song that feels like it suits him in the moment. He searches each day for something as deep and green as her eyes and comes up empty each time, he listens for a sound as sweet as her voice or as vibrant as her laughter and he’s disappointed each time. The greatest musicians in the world could get together and would still be unable to compose something so scintillating. 

He lays in bed staring up at the ceiling with his violin on his chest and he plays, trying to feel something akin to the vibration he feels from her, but there’s nothing. 

* * *

It’s a gloomy Wednesday in the plaza he frequents, just outside of the annual Christmas market when he feels something bubble up inside of him. He doesn’t fight it - it’s such a strong feeling that he’d be powerless to do so. He simply lets himself play, lets his violin speak. It’s her song, he realises only when he’s halfway through. The one about the bluebird. He doesn’t sing it himself, he doesn’t normally sing, but the idea of singing _this_ song in particular, _her_ song, would be blasphemous. He could never do it justice with his voice, but his hands know just what to do. He feels closer to her as he plays, and it makes him feel better. He draws in a small crowd, people leave money in his open violin case. And then it happens. He sees her. 

She’s at the back of the crowd, her expression serious but thoughtful, like she’s listening to a song she’s never heard before. He feels his heart seize up in his chest and his hand falters, but he quickly regains composure and finishes out the song, watching her watch him. She’s focused on his hands, and he’s acutely aware of this, the way he fingers the bow, the way he brushes the strings. 

He cranes his head to look up at her when he finishes and gets a better look at her through the crowd. She’s in her coat, buttoned properly, he’s glad to see, and she has a white canvas grocery bag on her arm, lumpy with its contents. 

Her hair is in a loose ponytail with two strands framing her delicate face, and her cheeks and nose are flushed that same pink from the cold.

Scott clears his throat. “That song was composed by a beautiful woman named Tessa.” He says to the crowd while keeping his eyes locked on hers. He’d missed that green. He watches as she tries to bite back a smile but Scott can see it break through. “And this song is _for_ a beautiful woman named Tessa.” He’s not sure when he composed it. He never even wrote it down, but it’s seared itself into his brain after all the time he’s spent in the past few weeks thinking about her. He can hear his bow working the strings and, though he’s not a singer, he feels like his music speaks - _Emerald eyes, strawberry lips, crème frîache skin, la dame qui disparaît who doesn’t like anybody but is polite to everybody. She’s here now._

She’s watching him like she’s never heard music before and Scott feels his heart beating with the rhythm of his song. He makes a particularly clever riff and watches as her eyes grow wider and she covers her mouth to hide her impressed smile. She’s stepped forward, come closer and Scott grins slyly and ducks his head so the crowd won’t see him blush, but he keeps his eyes on her feet. Making sure she’s not going to disappear on him. 

He finds himself physically and emotionally exhausted as he finishes her song, as if he’s been chasing something that’s far too quick for him only to have it turn and catch _him_. But the crowd applauds as he finishes and he looks up with a smile to see Tessa sigh and blink back tears, her velvet-gloved hand covering her chest. He stands from the stairs he’s sitting on and bows his head. “Merci beaucoup.” He says. 

She gives him a warm smile, and it’s enough for him to feel throughout his entire body, even on such a chilly winter’s day. But then he sees her duck back into the crowd and begin to walk away. 

“Tess-“ He shouts and startles the crowd. “I’m sorry.” He says, quickly, packing his violin into his case with the money he’s earned. “Je suis désolé, excusez-moi, excusez-moi.” He says as he makes his way through the crowd, trying not to be too pushy seeing as they’ve just paid for his meals for the week, but desperate not to lose sight of Tessa. 

She’s walking swiftly, but he catches up to her by running, probably looking like a madman with his violin case flapping behind him. 

“Hey.” He says, panting when he catches up to her. “Hey.” 

She turns to him like she’s surprised to see him, completely ignoring the fact that he’s just chased her down. “That was beautiful.” She says softly, still keeping her pace as they walk into the wind by the canal. “Scott, that was really beautiful.” 

He smiles softly. “Thank you.” He says. “It really was for you, you know. I - I composed it for you.” 

She’s silent for a moment and he sees her eyes squint slightly like she’s thinking about something, trying to decipher something, but she shakes her head. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in a long time.” She says with such thought and care that Scott’s inclined to believe that she actually means it. 

She stops then and turns toward him. “Are you following me?” She asks. 

He’s taken off guard for a moment, but smiles. “Yes.” He says. 

“Why?” She asks. 

“You didn’t tip me.” He jokes, grinning.

He watches as a slow, glorious smile spreads across her face. 

He shrugs. “I mean, if you really liked it all that much…” He says, continuing his jest in hopes of prolonging that beautiful smile. 

She tightens her lips like she’s trying to keep from smiling as widely as she has, an action that Scott only finds more endearing, and she sighs. “You’re right.” She says quietly. “Certainly not _polite_ of me.” 

Scott grins but then he thinks his heart stops as she rests a hand on his cheek, the crushed velvet of her glove nowhere near as soft as her bare skin had been, though he’s certainly not going to complain. She leans in so close that Scott can feel her body heat. She smells like something sweet and flowery, and he’s sad that his lungs force him to hold his breath as she puckers those strawberry lips because he loves the way she smells. She presses her lips gently to his right cheek in the sweetest kiss he’s ever received. He shuts his eyes as he feels her on his skin. She’s soft and warm and everything he’s imagined. And when she pulls back he’s lost in her eyes once more. She holds his gaze and he continues to hold his breath until she lets her hand brush his cheek and run down his neck, sending goosebumps erupting all over him. She leans back in and presses her lips to his left cheek this time. _When in France._ Scott thinks to himself, closing his eyes as he feels her there again. The brush of her lips on his cheek feels like the wings of some celestial butterfly and he allows himself to close his eyes, trying to commit the feeling to memory. 

When she pulls back he grunts softly and clears his throat. “You’re too generous.” He says. 

She gives her head a slight shake and says quietly, “It was well worth it.”

He smiles sadly as she lets her hand fall from his neck. 

She shifts her grocery bag higher on her arm. 

“Can I at least walk you home?” He asks. “I can help you carry that.” He nods to her bag. 

She looks up at him and gives him a look, _something between curiosity and flattery, perhaps?_

“You can walk me to the library.” She says. “I need to check out a book.” 

Scott smiles and bows his head and holds out his arm for her bag. She hands it over to him with a smirk. “I _could_ manage that on my own, you know.”

He smirks, finding it funny that she’d felt the need to express that. 

“There’s not much I imagine you _can’t_ do.” He says, slinging the bag over his shoulder with his violin case and offering her his arm. She looks at him sweetly and somewhat proudly thanks to his comment. She hesitates a moment, glancing around quickly before taking his arm.

“What are you planning on making?” He asks, referring to the groceries. 

“Oh.” She says. “I don’t know, I’m not the best chef. I kind of just throw things in a pot and hope for the best.”  
Scott laughs. “We’ll you’ve kept yourself alive so you can’t be that bad.” 

Tessa smiles to herself. 

They walk in the direction of the large library across the bridge. 

“You haven’t been at the pub the past few weeks.” He says nonchalantly as they cross the street. 

She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.” She says. “You’re a brilliant observer.”

It takes him a moment to process the snark in her comment, but when he does his expression draws a laugh from her. Even at his own expense it’s beautiful. He laughs along with her for a moment before she says in a sad voice, “They call me _la dame qui disparaît_. Or haven’t you heard by now?” 

Scott furrows his brow. She’s clearly upset by the name. 

“I was worried.” He says. 

She cocks her head, but keeps looking straight ahead toward the bridge. “What would you have to be worried about?” 

He looks down at her, his eyes expressing more than he could say with his words, much the way his music tends to do. 

She looks away shyly and swallows. “Well.” She says. “I’ve appeared again, so…” 

“Is everything alright?” He asks, his arm flexing in hers. 

“Fine.” She says, her face turned away from him, though he can see the hurt in her expression in her profile. 

“If it weren’t fine you could talk to me.” He says. 

She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “You don’t want to hear about that.” 

“I want to hear about everything.” He says simply. 

She looks over at him, her eyes meeting his before darting away again. She uses her free hand to clutch the collar of her coat, pulling it tight around her neck to shield herself from the wind. “No you don’t.” She says in a whisper. 

He’s not sure she’s even meant for him to hear it. She sounded more like she was talking to herself rather than anyone else, but he has heard her and he stops, dead in his tracks, forcing her to stop with him. “Tessa.” He says. She turns to him. 

He bites his lip, lets out a sigh. “I do.” He says. 

She watches him for a moment, those green eyes searching for something in his. He lets her. _Search away_ , he thinks. He hopes she finds what she’s looking for. He’s never said anything more truthful. 

A car whizzes past and she’s lets out a quick huff of breath, shaking her head as she seems to come out of a daze. Scott smiles softly. He knows the feeling. 

“I need to go to the library.” She says, making it clear that she wants to move on from the topic. 

Scott’s smile fades slightly as she hasn’t put him at ease, but he offers her his arm. “Ok.” He says softly. “Then let’s get you to the library.” 

She clears her throat and looks around once more before taking his arm again and they begin to make their way across the bridge. 

It’s quite a nice day despite the cold. The skies are blue and the air, though it’s brisk, is refreshing. People bustle along beside them, going about their business. 

“What book is it that you’re looking for?” He asks her, deciding it’s going to have to be him to break the silence between them. 

“ _Moulin Rouge.”_ She says. 

“Like the theatre?” He asks. 

Tessa nods. “I can’t find it anywhere.” 

“You could probably just go to a show.” He says, smirking. “I’d take you, if you wanted.” 

She whips her head over to look at him. “I want the _book_.” She says. 

He raises his eyebrows, likes her fire. “Oui m’dame, tout de suite!” He says enthusiastically, and sees her lips twitch up into the smallest smirk. 

He pulls her along faster and she laughs at his feigned urgency. He’s grinning by the time they reach the library, elated to be the one to have provoked her amusement. 

He holds open the heavy wooden door for her and they make their way to the front desk where a clerk sits, flipping through an old stack of yellowed catalogue cards. He looks up at them over his wiry crescent shaped glasses. 

“Nous recherchons Moulin Rouge.” Scott says to the man, stumbling slightly over the words. 

“le livre.” Tessa clarifies, and Scott turns to her, wishing she’d say it again. Her French is wonderfully alluring. 

The man takes his glasses off and coughs slightly. “We’re out.” He says in French. “The last copy was taken out two days ago. London’s making a movie based off of it. It’s quite difficult to find now. I would check back in about two weeks.” 

Tessa’s shoulders sag, and Scott hates to see her disappointed. 

“I’m sorry.” He says softly as she thanks the man behind the counter. They turn, Tessa ready to leave, but Scott gets an idea. 

“Surely you’re not walking away empty handed.” He says. 

She stares at him. 

“Come with me.” He says, offering her his hand. 

She smiles slightly and takes it. 

He leads her up a set of old marble stairs and into a large chamber lined with old musky books. “I bet they have it.” He says, trailing his finger along the line of books, his free hand still holding hers. 

“Ah! Here.” He pulls a book from the shelf; _Nourriture en France._

“I learned a lot from this book when I first got here. It’s really great and the recipes are easy to follow.” 

“You cook?” She asks. She seems surprised and Scott likes it. 

“I do.” He says. “I can show you some time if you like, since it sounds like you don’t believe me.” He winks and offers her the book. “Or we could practice together if you want.” 

She takes the book gingerly from his hands and holds it to her chest like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. 

“Would you show me how to make coq au vin?” She asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. 

Scott can’t help the way his smile grows. “Of course.” He says. “Is that your favourite?” 

Tessa looks at him confusedly for a second as if she’s wondering why he would have asked that, but then she seems to realise that it’s a perfectly logical question. 

“Oh.” She says, and she shakes her head. “No.” She holds the book tighter. 

“Well… What’s your favourite?” He asks. 

She looks at him wearily like she does’t understand why he wants to know. She’s puzzling. 

“Crème brûlée.” She says, finally. 

“Wouldn’t you like to learn how to make that first?” He asks. 

She looks at him another moment but shakes her head. “No.” She says. 

Scott laughs, “Ok.” He says. “Coq au vin, then. No problem.” 

She looks relieved. “Are you alright?” He asks. 

She ignores his question. “If you get to choose a book for me, I get to choose one for you.” She says. 

“Only fair.” Scott nods. 

Tessa grabs his hand and Scott swears his heart bashes into his ribcage. It hurts but in a way that’s _so_ very good. 

She leads him back down the flight of stairs and directly toward a bookcase, that is to say, she knows just where she’s going. 

He watches her, her pink tongue peeking out of the side of her mouth in concentration as she does a cursory scan of the shelf before plucking a book from it surely. “Here.” She says, handing it to him. 

_Grande rivière à deux cœurs_

“Big river with two hearts?” He asks, turning the book on its spine. It’s Earnest Hemingway. He’s never heard of it. 

“Big two hearted river.” Tessa amends.

Scott chuckles. “I’ll try it.” He says. “My French leaves a little to be desired.” 

“I could read some of it to you.” She says. “ - If that would help. I just think you’ll really like it.” 

Scott lets out a breath. “Yeah.” He says, thrilled at the prospect and also at the fact that she could have just as easily recommended an English copy but had decided against it. “That would help.” He smiles softly. “Coq a vin for Hemingway. Seems like a fair bargain.” He offers her his hand and they shake on it. 

Tessa checks both books out since Scott doesn’t have a library card, and they head out of the heavy front doors and back out into the December air. It’s an unusually cold December and Scott sees the way Tessa shivers. He hates the thought of her walking home in the cold and having to lug her groceries around. “Are you sure I can’t walk you home?” He asks. 

She shakes her head. “No.” She says. “But you can walk me back over the bridge. 

Scott smiles and offers her his arm once more. He could get used to this; walking around Paris with a beautiful girl. 

“So, why _Moulin Rouge_?” He asks her finally, the question weighing on his mind. 

“I just have an idea.” She says. “I walked by the theatre the other day and it popped into my head and I just need to read it so I have a better picture in my head for what I want to write.” 

It’s as open as she’s ever been with him and he appreciates it. “So you were inspired.” He says. 

She shrugs, playing it off as nothing. 

“Well…” He says. “We’ll have to check back in a couple weeks.” He knows better than to ask an artist to elaborate on their sapling ideas. 

Tessa nods. 

They get back to the plaza and Scott feels himself grow uneasy as he hands her back her groceries, her book tucked snugly inside the bag. 

“Will I see you Friday?” He asks. 

She looks at him and smiles, which makes him feel slightly better. “I’ll be there. _La dame qui réapparaît_.” She says it cooly.

Scott smiles weakly. “You don’t disappear.” He says. “You just go somewhere else.” 

He watches a smile turn up her sweet lips and her eyes soften. “Maybe we can cook Saturday?” She asks. “At your flat?” 

Scott reaches out for her hand and she sets it in his. He gives her a squeeze. “parfait.” He says. 

_Perfect._


	4. Chapter 4

Scott must’ve visited twenty different bookstores that week looking for _Moulin Rouge_ , but it seems that every single copy is sold out. He wants so badly to be the one to get it for her, maybe for Christmas. He thinks that would be nice and he’d love to see the look on her face as she unwraps it. 

In the day and a half since he’s last seen her, he’s played that moment where she kissed him over in his head a hundred times. And he’s tried two different variations of coq au vin, trying to decide which she would like better. He thinks it incredibly funny and endearingly strange that she doesn’t want to learn crème brûlée since that’s her favourite, so he whips up a small ramekin of it anyway as best he can with what he has to work with - just his oven, really. And then he starts to worry that she’ll be turned off by his flat. The wallpaper is peeling in the corners and it’s kind of dark and quite small. He keeps the space clean, and swept but he’s sure it’s nothing like what she goes home to. And then there’s the matter of the kitchen. His oven is small and his counter space severely limited. The only place he was able to fit a small dining table is directly in the center of the kitchen, and he doesn’t have all the best utensils. He wishes he could go out and buy some, spruce up the place with some new stainless steel, but he just can’t afford it. 

On Friday she sings the most gorgeous song about a little boy on Christmas.

And she allows him to walk her to the end of the street. _Progress_. He thinks. 

When he hears the knock on his door Saturday afternoon his heart begins to race. He’d done everything he could to make his flat seem more her style - there were candles lit to brighten it up, art he’d been meaning to hand for ages perched over places where the wallpaper looked especially dingy. He’d cleaned painstakingly, making sure every surface was absolutely spotless. He’d set the book she’d picked out for him on his table in case she wanted to read. He’d worked his way through the first three chapters with a decent understanding, and he knew he could get through it on his own but he desperately wanted to listen to it in her voice, to watch those gorgeous strawberry lips and hear her raspy French accent all working for the sake of _him._

“Hi.” He says, already grinning as he opens his door. 

She’s in a brown tweed dress today with hints of orange flecked into it. She has on black stockings and a black overcoat with an adorable soft brimmed hat on her head, her hair worn down, cascading over her shoulders. 

“You look beautiful.” He says, without even thinking. 

He imagines she’s blushing because she has that shy look about her that she tends to get when he compliments her, but her face is so red from the cold that he can hardly tell. He steps aside. “Come in.” He says. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

He makes her a cup of tea and takes her hat and coat to hang up in the closet as she settles at the small dining table. 

“I’m sorry my flat isn’t-“ He begins at the very moment she’s started saying, “Your flat is lovely.” 

They pause and laugh. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing like you have at home.” He says, laying his insecurity bare. 

She shakes her head. “No, I have nothing quite as charming.” She’s being genuine and Scott’s surprised. 

“Well, it’s rather small.” He says and shrugs. “But it’s all I need for now.” 

She looks up at him and smiles gently. “I love your artwork.” She says. 

“Oh.” He laughs, flustered as he’s just gotten a better look at her dress. The neckline is unique, a short collar sloping into a long v that exposes her freckle flecked chest just enough. “They’re just pieces I’ve collected. Which do you like?” 

“That one’s my favourite.” She says, pointing to the one by the door to his bedroom (which he’d shut quite intentionally, not wanting her to feel strange about being alone in a man’s apartment, though, happily, she seems very comfortable). 

Scott smiles. “What do you like about it?” 

She looks up at him with her big bright eyes and Scott feels his stomach swoop. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to them. 

“The flowers.” She says softly. “Those are my favourite flowers.” 

“What are they called?” He asks, sorry now that he knows so little about flowers. 

“They’re peonies.” She says sweetly. 

“Peonies.” He repeats. “And how do you say that  en français?” 

“Pivoines.” She says, enunciating, and then, after seeing how he was looking at her adding, “What?” 

Scott shakes his head, tears his eyes from her. “I just like your voice.” He says, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck. “Why are they your favourites?” 

She flushes and he can see it this time. “Oh,” She says. “They remind me of -“ But she stops herself. “Um… I just think they’re pretty.” She says. “Why do you like my voice?” 

Scott huffs a laugh. “Same reason.” 

Tessa bites back a smile.

“Alright.” Scott says, clapping his hands together. “Shall we get started then?” 

Tessa nods happily and stands up. Scott can’t help letting his eyes drift over her form. It’s the tightest fitting dress he’s seen her in and she just looks so very lovely in it. 

“So, have you had a chance to read the recipe in that book?” He asks. 

Tessa nods and leans over to retrieve it out of her bag on the floor. Scott gulps and tries his best not to look at her bent over, the fabric of the dress riding up on her thigh, tightening over her backside. He looks away only when he sees her start to stand back up straight, letting out a small sigh. 

“Here.” She says, laying the book out on the table and flipping it open to the coq au vin page. She has it bookmarked with a yellow index card which she’s scribbled notes on. Scott finds the fact incredibly endearing. He takes a quick moment to admire her penmanship. It’s bold and intricate and sophisticated, just like her. He can see her writing her poems like that. 

“You’re a good student.” He observes. 

She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m a _bad_ student. That’s why I need to take notes.” 

“Anyone who knows both Valery _and_ Hemingway can’t be a bad student.” He tells her and she shrugs. “I’m a bad _chef,_ then.” She pouts and Scott feels his heart flutter. 

“Well…” He says softly, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear because when she pouts like that he can’t _not_ touch her. “Lucky for you, you’re in good hands.” 

She looks up at him with some sort of mischievous look and Scott feels goosebumps pop up on his back. “Uh, here.” He says, turning his attention to the countertop. 

“We should chop the vegetables first.” He hands her a knife and takes one for himself and they get to work chopping - carrots first, and when those are done they move on to onions. 

“Oh.” Tessa grimaces when he pulls them out of the bag she’d brought over (because she’d insisted on buying the food) “I hate chopping onions.” 

Scott chuckles. “I can do the onions myself.” He says, but she shakes her head. 

“I have to know I can do every step correctly.” She tells him, and he doesn’t argue with her. 

She does cry though as she’s chopping, her emerald eyes filling to the brim and then overflowing. She wipes her tears with the sleeve of her dress, knife still in hand and pushes through until her vision gets too blurry from the tears and she accidentally nicks her finger with the knife. “Ah.” She hisses. “Oh,  brûle en enfer.” She rolls the onion away from herself and clutches her finger. 

Scott raises his brow at the curse, wishes he could enjoy it more coming from her, but his attention immediately turns to her finger. 

“Here.” He says, holding his hand out, let me see.” 

She clutches her hand to her chest, watching him wearily. 

“It’s ok.” He tells her, unsure why she looks so frightened. “It’s alright, Tess.” 

She softens after a moment and lowers her hand slowly into his outstretched palm. 

He relaxes when he sees it’s nothing serious. “’S’okay.” He tells her. He reaches for a cloth napkin and she protests, something about not wanting to stain it, but he couldn’t care less. “Hold that for a minute.” He says, as he turns to the sink and washes the onion from his hands. “One minute.” He tells her, heading for his medicine cabinet in the bathroom where he digs out a bandage and some antibiotic cream. 

“Ready?” He asks, when he returns, holding his hand out again. 

She nods and lowers her hand to his once more and he covers it with the cream and then wraps the bandage around her finger snugly. 

“Good news.” He tells her. “I think you’ll live.” 

She gives him a half smile and he simply can’t take the tears that are left on her cheeks so he raises his hands slowly. “Can I?” He asks. She nods. 

He steps forward and uses his thumbs to brush the tears gently from her face until they’re gone.

“There.” He says, satisfied. “All better.” 

“Wow.” She says softly, “A chef and a doctor.” 

“Told you you’re in good hands.” He says proudly, winking at her. He doesn’t allow his gaze to linger on her too long because he wants terribly to kiss her, taste the salt on her skin, make her feel better. 

So he turns back to the onion. “My French isn’t as good as it could be, but I believe you told this guy to burn in hell.” He says, picking up the culprit and tossing it into the trash. “Hope that’s good enough for you.” 

She smiles. “It’ll do.” She says softly. 

Scott reaches an arm out for her. “Come here.” He says. “No more chopping, we’re all done.” She nods and steps closer so she can watch what he’s doing. 

He heats a pan with olive oil and sets the slices of bacon she’d bought in it one at a time, laying them down flat. She watches with bated breath as he allows his fingers so close to the pan without searing them. And then he invites her over, lets her stand in front of the strips. She’d gotten the good kind, he can tell by the smell. His mouth is already watering. “So we wait until they get nice and golden brown.” He says quietly, leaning over her shoulder to look in the pan. She turns her head just slightly toward his voice and his lips graze her ear. The pan sizzles and sends a few drops of oil up into the air. 

“Oh.” She gasps and steps backward into him. He steadies her with his hands on her hips. “It’s ok.” He says. “Just a bit of oil, it’s not going to get high enough to hurt you.” 

He feels her relax, and leaves his hands there on her hips self-indulgently. He thinks she might say something but she leans back instead, pressing further against him. He lets out a deep breath and his hands move from her hips to her stomach. He leans over her and embraces her from behind, pressing his cheek to hers. 

“So, um…” He says, turning his head slightly. She’s smiling slyly and it makes him smile in turn. “So we wait for them to brown up a bit.”

“Okay.” She says softly. She closes her eyes and Scott watches her expression carefully. She looks happy. He wishes he knew what she were thinking. 

They stand like that in contented silence with Scott’s arms wrapped around her midsection and her body pressed back against his, until it’s time to remove the bacon. He hands her the fork and lets her scoop them from the pan. She looks so proud. 

He stands behind her then, pressed against her, feeling that swoop of her back, the curve of her ass against him, bolder now that he knows she wants it too, as he shows her how to season the chicken.

He sets a timer as she lays the chicken in the pan, stepping back into his arms once it starts sizzling again. He holds her gladly, his nose pressed against her cheek. She smells that same way she had the other day - like flowers, and Scott wants to lose himself in her. His eyes are closed and all he can hear is the sound of the chicken sizzling in the pan. Everything else is _Tessa._ He runs his nose across her soft skin and feels her tilt her head to the side, exposing her neck. He lets his head drop naturally to that smooth spot just under her ear and just as his lips brush across her the timer goes off. He nearly jumps at the harsh sound of it, snapping him back to reality. His face goes red, but Tessa doesn’t seem to notice as she steps forward and turns the chicken to brown the other side.

She resets the timer and turns around to face him, looking up at him with a smirk. 

He laughs nervously. “Sorry.” He says. 

She shakes her head. “It felt nice.” 

He loses his breath and watches as she turns and begins straightening out his countertop, throwing the excess vegetable skin, the meat wrappings into the rubbish. 

He does nothing but watch her, and when the alarm goes off she reaches for the vegetables and turns to him, holding the bowl in her hands like she’s offering him all seven sacraments at once. 

“These next?” She asks. 

Scott swallows dryly and nods, watching as she turns her back to him once more to pour the vegetables into the cast iron. 

“Is this alright?” She asks, reaching behind her and pulling him toward her. He moves closer and tucks himself against her so he can look over her shoulder. They fit together even more perfectly than he’d imagined and he reaches for a spoon to help her stir. “Perfect.” He says softly, trying his hardest not to bury his face into the crook of her neck once more. 

They combine everything, adding the wine and stock and leave it in the oven to cook. 

“Well.” She smiles, and Scott thinks she seems relieved. “Shall we read?” 

He nods. They sit by the window, sharing the small sofa chair he’d managed to snag from a consignment shop. He listens to her intently, watching the way her lips shape the words, stopping her when he needs a translation or clarification. She’s happy to go slowly for him, and she meets his every question with a smile. Scott finds himself transfixed by the book, the long, drawn out descriptions of the most mundane activities, turning real life into poetry, turning ordinary into significant. Sometimes _he_ feels that way. Like a moment that might not mean anything can somehow mean absolutely everything if you pause and think about it, if you look at it from the right angle, if you learn to appreciate without expectation. The flicker of a smile, the shimmer of emerald, the feeling of tweed under fingertips, the act of making a meal with another person. He could compose individual albums-worth of each of them. And the big things - getting shipped off to war, deserting, the bombs and the guns and the _death._ The uncertainty, the struggle, though they weigh most heavily on him, exist in the background. They’re not the things he _wants_ to think about at all. 

They stop reading to add in the mushrooms and when it’s all finished, Scott lets Tessa do the honours, pulling it out of the oven in mitt-clad hands. 

He grins as she sets it on the stovetop, and watches her examine the dish like it’s a fine painting. 

She turns to him, and his smile fades. She looks upset. 

“I’m so sorry.” She says, that Canadian apology coming back around to shatter his heart. 

“What?” He asks, stepping forward, “What’s wrong?” She looks frightened and he reaches a hand out for her, intending to stroke her back, but she flinches away and he drops his arm quickly. “I’m sorry.” He says quickly, repeating, “What’s wrong?” 

“I burnt it.” She says, shrinking from him slightly. It’s so unlike the Tessa he’s known up until now that it scares him. 

“Hey.” He says softly, shaking his head, “No, look, look.” He says softly. “It’s not burnt, Tess, it’s alright.” He takes a spoon and stirs the dish. “That’s just the way the marinade looks. It’s ok, see?” 

She peers nervously over the stove and watches as he stirs, her whole body relaxing. Scott sets a hand on her back and she flinches, but he doesn’t withdraw this time. 

“It’s alright.” He tells her again. 

“I’m sorry.” She says. “Sorry.” 

“Hey.” He says, gently, taking her face in his hands. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Tess. Even if we did burn it, that happens, all’s fair in…” He’s about to say love and cooking, but decides he’d better not. “It happens to me all the time. Nothing to worry about, but look.” He gestures to the dish in front of them and grins. “It looks amazing.” 

She seems to settle and lets out a breath. “Okay.” She says, and she nods. “Good.” 

Scott chews his lip nervously. “You know, even if it were burnt it would be ok. We’re not Le Cordon Bleu.” He over-exaggerates her French accent and she smiles weakly. 

“Yeah.” She says softly. 

They sit down to dinner and, despite her face glowing pridefully now that she knows it’s not burnt, she barely touches her meal. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks once more, laying his fork down. “Don’t you like it?” He thinks it’s delicious. 

Tessa shakes her head “I’m not a big fan of bacon.” She says. 

“Tess.” He laughs, and gives her a look. “We could have left the bacon out.” 

“No.” She shakes her head. “I wanted to learn how to make it _properly_. I - I’m sorry, I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Thank you so much, Scott, I can’t tell you how much it means to me, really.” 

He licks his lips and cocks his head. “You’re something else, you know that, Virtch?”

She blushes like a schoolgirl at the nickname. 

“Well.” He says, “My parents used to tell me I couldn’t have dessert until I cleaned my plate but… I think I’ll make an exception for you.” He stands and moves to the refrigerator, pulling the crème brûlée out. He’d have liked for her to have it fresh but he hopes there will be other times for that. 

He feels his heart beat faster when he sees the way her eyes light up at the sight of it. 

“Oh, Scott.” She breathes, and he wishes he could replay her saying it over and over. He sets it on the table in front of her, beaming. He turns toward the cupboard to get a plate for himself butHe says, but she pulls on his sleeve and shakes her head. “We can share the ramekin.” She says. He likes her pulling on his things, he realises. 

He pulls his chair around the table so he can be closer to her and they share the small bowl. She throws her head back at her first bite and Scott watches, enraptured. 

“So. Good.” She enthuses. He grins and watches her take another bite. She closes her eyes and hums lowly and it stirs something deep in Scott’s belly. 

“Oh, Scott.” She sighs. 

He opens his mouth, leans his head to the side, runs a hand down her back. He can’t keep track of his own movements when she’s doing _this_ , especially when he knows that he’s the _reason_ she’s doing this. 

He lets out a breath. “I’m glad you like it.” He says finally. 

“Like it?” She takes another bite. “Oh my God, Scott this is the best crème brûlée I’ve ever had. 

He smiles shyly and shakes his head. “It’s nothing… It’s not that… I mean…” He stumbles over his words, his heart bursting and distracting him from every other motor function he’s trying to employ. 

“Have some before I eat it all.” Tessa laughs, and scoops another spoonful, offering it to Scott. 

“I-“ He stutters, but she holds her spoon there, waiting for him. He leans forward and takes it into his mouth, watching her cheeks rise as she smiles, scrunching her eyes adorably. 

He feels like an absolute idiot but he doesn’t care because she’s happy and she likes what he’s made for her and she’s _fed_ him. Equally as enjoyable is the way she goes back to feeding herself afterward, sharing her spoon like it’s nothing. 

They finish dessert and clean the kitchen together and Scott thinks about Ernest Hemingway, because what’s normally such a mundane task somehow feels like the most important thing in the world. 

“So what did you think?” He asks when their work is done for now and they stand there in a messy kitchen. 

She smiles. “It wasn’t so bad. Just a small battle scar to show for it.” She holds up her bandaged finger. 

“Does it hurt?” He asks quietly, gesturing toward her finger. 

“It’s alright.” She says. 

“May I?” He asks holding his hand out for hers. 

She smiles and offers it readily to him this time. 

He raises her hand, turns it over in his and holds her fist, her bandaged pointer finger extended. He brings it to his lips gently and kisses her there as softly as he’s ever kissed anything. 

She sighs as she watches him. 

“I don’t want anything to hurt you.” He says, lowering her hand. 

He sees her swallow hard and her eyes dart downward. 

“You’re very sweet.” She says. 

He rests his forehead against hers. “I mean it.” He says.

She looks sad. “Everyone gets hurt.” She says. “That’s life.”

Scott shakes his head. “Not you.” He says, the thought of it excruciating. “I don’t want you to hurt.” 

She gives her head a slight shake, her eyes shimmering like they might be hiding tears. Scott rests his cheek against hers. She’s warm and she brings her hand up to caress the other side of his cheek. “Okay.” Is all she says, her voice wavering. “Thank you.” 

They stay there a moment longer, neither of them wanting to move. 

He’s at a loss for words, which rarely ever happens, even when he’s speaking French.

And then her hands come up and brush his cheeks, settling further down on his neck. She watches him for a moment, studying his face, her head leaned slightly to the side, her lips parted. And she moves closer until their lips brush. 

“Do you still want to kiss me?” She asks. 

He nods, choking out a, “Yes.” 

“Would you still want to kiss me if I burned dinner?” She asks, her voice a velvet whisper.

Scott huffs a sad laugh and rests his hands on her wrists, running them down her arms to her shoulders and then down her sides to hers hips. “Tessa.” He says softly, nuzzling her nose. “I’d still want to kiss you even if you burned my entire building down.” 

He sees her smile and he lets out a slow breath. It takes everything in him not to close the small space left between their lips. But Tessa does it for him, angling her head upward and brushing her lips across his. 

Scott can’t help the small whimper that escapes him at the feeling. He’s thought about those strawberry lips for hours on end. When  she finally presses them to his, he’s not disappointed. They’re so soft, and just as sweet as he’s imagined. Her kiss feels like the most angelic form of torture, sucking him in only to pull away and repeat the action over again. All he can think about is her, all he can feel is her, all he ever wants to have ever again is _her_. He lets her wash over him, a cloying tsunami, drowning out everything else he’s ever known or cared for. He’s never going to be the same again and he couldn’t be happier about it. 

He hums softly into their kiss, his tongue running across the seam of her lips and when she opens them for him like some kind of sirenic flower, he caresses her tongue with his, trying to taste all the dulcet words she strings together with it. If he were to die in that moment, it would be happy, knowing that he’d tasted a _soul_ , for he was certain she laced parts of herself into her words, into her songs, into her poems, and they were all forged with care by that clever tongue of hers. 

When she pulls away it feels like she pulls his heart along with her. He thinks of Hemingway then, too. 

* * *

She comes to see him play again on Monday, and he plays a new song, another song just for her. 

They have coffee in a café and walk by the river. 

It snows and he watches the flurries collect in her hair like constellations in the night sky. He lets her wear his hat because she seems to have a knack for being unprepared for the weather. 

They sit on a bench in a park and he watches her watching everything else. None of it interests him but her. 

When she turns to him his eyes fall to her lips and he leans toward her ever so slightly. The flurries have let up, but she still wears his hat. It’s much too large for her, but he loves the way his things look on her. 

She smiles gently at him, lets him hold her hand. “Would you go somewhere with me?” He asks her. 

“Where?” She asks, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Well, it would be a surprise if we were to go.” He says, smiling back and moving closer. 

She opens her mouth slightly, like she’s about to say something but she just sighs softly, lets her eyes fall to his lips, lets her tongue press against the roof of her mouth. 

Scott moves a hand to her thigh. It’s covered in the thick fabric of her coat but he can feel her muscle underneath. She’s slender, but quite strong, and it makes Scott burn despite the cold air. 

“Hm?” He asks, waiting for her response, he leans closer, his forehead nearly touching her temple. 

She smiles once more and turns to him, their noses nearly touching. She looks beautiful with her pale skin contrasting with the dark wool of her coat and her cheeks as rosy red as the holly berries on the snow-sprinkled tree behind her. 

“I don’t like surprises.” She says. 

Scott smiles. “I think I could change your mind.” 

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head at him and his smile grows. “I promise it’s not dancing.” He says. “Despite how _capable_ I am at it.” He repeats what she’d said to him, grinning now as she flushes again. 

“I like you.” He whispers. “So much.” 

She looks up at him with a steely look. “I don’t like anyone.” She reminds him. 

Scott nods, leaning closer, his lips nearly brushing hers. “But I’m not just anyone.” 

She sighs and he feels her breath on his lips. “You’re very cocky.” She whispers, her gloved hand curling around the lapel of his coat. 

“I know. I think you _like_ cocky.” He says, watching her, the green of her eyes swimming with something he can’t place, it’s like fear and desire and regret and elation all at once and it looks _stunning_ on her. Something comes over him and he surges forward, catching her lips in a deep kiss, moaning softly into her mouth, when he hears her whimper. His tongue quickly finds its place along hers once again. She kisses him back with just as much vim, pulling on the lapel of his coat so he’s leaning over her. His hat, far too large for her, falls off her head and into the snow but neither of them care until they hear footsteps approaching and Tessa withdraws from him quickly, leaning down to pick up his hat and brush the snow off like nothing had happened. She angles herself away from him, looking for the oncoming party, and when she spots them, two perfect strangers, just another couple wandering the park, her shoulders, which have shot up to her ears, relax.

She turn back to him looking apologetic and slightly sad, but recovers quickly and sets his hat on his head, pulling the brim down over his eyes playfully. He can’t help but laugh. 

“I don’t like surprises.” She repeats. “I need to know where we’re going.”

“Alright.” He says, waving his arm in front of him, trying to get her to release the brim of his hat so he can see. When he finds her arm he presses against it and she resists him. He can hear her laughing softly to herself and it makes him smile. “Come on.” He says. It’s the most playful, the most spritely, he’s ever seen her … and he _can’t_ even see her. 

When she finally gives in, it’s all at once, and Scott’s hand goes flying back, throwing him off balance so he nearly falls off the bench. He hears her giggling wildly and when he straightens himself out and pulls his hat up so he can see her she’s grinning girlishly, her pink cheeks glowing and her eyes whimsical, she hits him on the shoulder with a snowball. 

“Oh, that’s it.” He says, and she yelps playfully and stands, darting away. Scott beams, chasing after her. 

She runs into a small grove of pine trees and he follows her, catching her finally, his arms wrapped around her waist from behind. He pulls her against him and lifts her off the ground, reveling in her laughter as he spins them in a circle before setting her down, laughing breathlessly himself. 

She turns in his arms and he looks at her. She takes his breath away and his smile fades as he feels his heart, sore and aching with want, pounding away in his chest. 

She stops laughing when she sees his face, loses her smile just as quickly as she’d gained it. “I’m sorry.” She says quickly, shaking her head like she’s done something wrong. She shrinks away from him and flinches once more as he reaches out for her, but he doesn’t stop. He’s gentle as he touches her, just his fingertips to her chin so he can raise her beautiful face to his. “I’m sorry.” She breathes. 

“Oh, no.” He says, quickly snapping out of his daze. “No, I just got uh… distracted.” Scott shakes his head and smiles in an effort to put her at ease. “Tess, don’t be sorry.” 

She watches him wearily, but his smile doesn’t falter. He’s not upset. He’s confused why she’d think he was. “Please don’t apologise.” 

She’s shaking and Scott can’t tell if it’s from the cold or because she seems quite uneasy. “Hey, Tess.” He says softly. “It’s alright, kiddo.” He pulls her into his arms and holds her tight, running his hands over her back to warm her. 

“Will you come back to my flat? We can just read a little and get you warmed up. I’ll make you some tea.” 

Tessa takes a moment but eventually he feels her nod against his shoulder. He allows her to take her time, gladly holding her until she pulls back. He takes her hand and they head toward his flat. 

Scott reads this time, sitting on one side of his sofa with Tessa curled up on the other. He’d given her a blanket to cover up with and made her some tea. She’d correct his pronunciation when he needed it.

He gets to a word that he just as no idea where to even begin and she scoots over, pressing herself against his side so she can get a look. Scott holds the book in one hand, lets the other wrap around her and pull her closer. She looks down at his arm momentarily and he thinks she’s going to say something, but instead, she leans her head on his shoulder and turns to whisper in his ear, “truite.” She smiles against his skin and he can feel it. 

It sends shivers down his back and he lets out a deep breath before trying it himself, his voice husky. 

“Mhh.” Tessa hums softly and presses her fingers lightly to his throat. “Say it again.”

He repeats the word, trying to match her pronunciation and she nuzzles closer, her nose brushing his neck before she presses her lips there, kissing him softly. 

He lets out a long breath. “Tessa.” 

She drags her lips up his neck, his nerves on fire wherever she touches him, and she kisses him under his ear. “One more time.” She whispers, “Truite.” 

Scott’s completely lost his breath at this point, her tight little body all but on his lap now, the feeling of her lips on him echoing through his nervous system. He swallows dryly and says the word one last time, trying his best with the pronunciation. 

He feels her smile against him once more. “Good boy.” She whispers, her fingernails grazing gently down his neck, bumping slightly against the grain of his stubble. She lets it fall lower, her whole hand flat against him until she reaches the neckline of his henley, pulling on it gently. 

Scott closes his eyes and tries not to whimper like he had earlier but her touch feels like it sets his skin ablaze. 

He turns his head and presses his forehead to hers and she curls her fingers, reaching them just under his neckline and running her smooth nails along the skin of his chest. 

He sighs again, his lips parting, all but begging for her to kiss him. 

“Do you know what it means?” She whispers. 

“Hm?” He mumbles, his eyes closed tightly. 

Her hand moves from his neckline upward to stroke his cheek. He opens his eyes and meets hers. She’s smiling sweetly at him. 

“Truite.” She says softly. “Do you know what it means?” 

“I…” He tries to form a sentence but finds it nearly impossible. He doesn’t know what it means, he doesn’t _care_ what it means. It could be the worst word in the French language and he would scream it at the top of his lungs because she’d wanted him to… and because she sounds _that way_ when _she_ says it. He can’t bring himself to string together an intelligent sentence so he shakes his head. 

Her smile grows. “ _Trout_.” She says, and her eyes light up as she throws her head back and laughs like a child, and Scott thinks not for the first time that he’s completely, pathetically, hopelessly in love with her. 

He can’t do anything but watch her as she laughs, reveling in the way her lips look pulled into a smile, how her cheeks colour and raise, eclipsing the very bottoms of the emerald pools of her eyes. 

Her laughs turn to giggles and he shakes his head at her, though his whole body throbs with the absence of her touch. 

She snorts and he thinks she might as well just kill him dead right here and now because he simply can’t take it anymore. She’s the most remarkable contradiction, the most impossibly perfect combination of sweet and sultry and mysterious and _goofy._

He grins. “You’re something else, you know that?” He tells her and he wishes he had the courage to tell her just what he meant by it, but he doesn’t. 

She smiles at him and settles back on his shoulder, pulling her legs close and curling against him. “Keep going.” She says, patting his chest and chuckling. “You’re doing really well.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He says. 

He does continue reading and eventually he feels her breath slow and her body soften against his. He looks down to see her eyes shut peacefully, her long lashes angled downward. 

“Tess?” He whispers, but she doesn’t move. He smiles softly and kicks his feet up on the coffee table in front of them, settling back into the sofa and resting his cheek on the top of her head. He turns slightly, presses his nose into her hair and inhales her scent. He wishes he knew exactly what combination of flowers she smells like because he thinks he might like to get her a bouquet of them, or else peonies, since they’re her favourite. He glances up at the painting of them that she’d pointed out last time she was over and smiles because they’re the same colour her cheeks turn when he says something to make her blush. 

He dog-ears the book and closes it on his lap. Tessa’s so soft and warm snuggled into his side that he decides to close his eyes, just to rest them for a moment… 

“What time is it?” He hears Tessa saying. She sounds upset. They'd both fallen asleep. 

“Mh.” He mumbles as he’s jostled a bit. 

She’s pushing his arm off of her and reaching for his other arm when he finally gets his eyes to open. She’s pulling his wrist toward her to read his watch. 

“Oh.” She laments, springing up. 

“Tess?” He asks, managing to stand, feeling a bit dizzy having just been woken so suddenly. 

Tessa rakes her hands through her hair, using his mirror to make sure she looks presentable. 

“Hey.” He says, coming up behind her, setting his hands on her waist, only to have her push them away. It hurts like no other rejection he’s ever experienced. 

“I need to go.” She says, racing over to the doorway and struggling to stay upright as she pulls her boots on. 

“Ok.” He says, trying to calm her. “Tess, it’s ok.” He reaches out and takes her arm, steadying her so she won’t fall, and she lets him as she pulls her other boot on, but steps away quickly once they’re on her feet. Her face is panicked like he’s never seen. She almost looks frightened. “It’s _not_ ok.” She says, shaking her head and pulling her coat on. “I need to leave.” 

Scott reaches for his coat as well but she shakes her head. “Please just… don’t.” 

“But-“ Scott begins to protest, but Tessa shakes her head, looking at him with such urgency that it frightens him. 

“Please don’t.” She repeats, her voice firm. 

“Will I - Will I see you Friday?” He asks desperately, terrified she’s going to drop off the face of the earth. Terrified he’ll never see her again.

She pulls her hair from the collar of her coat and shakes it out before frantically doing up her buttons. 

She doesn’t answer him and he takes her face in his hands and presses hot, frenzied kisses to her cheeks.

She seizes his wrists and squeezes, and he stops, breathless, forehead against hers once more.

He thinks there are tears in her eyes. “Please stop.” She says, all the firmness in her voice melted away suddenly.

“I can’t.” He breathes shakily and shuts his eyes tightly. “ _I love you_.” 

Her breath hitches and she shakes her head slightly before pulling his hand from her cheek and pressing her lips against his palm softly. 

He thinks this must be what dying feels like. 

“Don’t say things like that.” She says in a whisper, and she turns and forces her way out of his lovesick arms and out the door. The sound it makes as it slams shut feels like it shatters his heart. And all that’s left is silence. 


	5. Chapter 5

She’s not there on Friday. Scott’s not surprised, just disappointed, and mostly worried. He misses her in a way that he’s never missed anything before. It’s strange because there’s so little he actually knows about her but somehow she’s everything he’s ever wanted. Somehow he just _knows_ he loves her. Because is there another girl in the whole world who can sing and write and speak French and make him laugh and cry and feel like his body is imploding all while looking like _that_? He doubts it very much, and even if there were, she wouldn’t be _Tessa._ He really does believe that there’s just something about her. 

There’s something about her that makes him want to read things he’d never normally read, go places he’d never normally go, put an unusual amount of effort into pronouncing the French word for trout, iron his shirts and clean his flat and write songs off the top of his head about the everything that he feels when he thinks about her. 

She’d sucked a small bruise into his skin that day she kissed his neck and he finds himself touching it just to see if he can feel pieces of her left over. He watches it in the mirror willing it not to fade. It’s all he has of her right now. A bruise and Earnest Hemingway, which he can hardly focus on. 

In fact, he can hardly focus on anything at all. He finds himself forgetting meals, walking three blocks past his intended destination, leaving the tap running. 

He can’t even bring himself to play, he just sits in the plaza with his violin and watches the people pass by, hoping one of them will be her. They never are.

Three weeks go by with no sign of her. He stops by the pub every Friday, and each time the b bassist, Gabriel simply shakes his head at him and Scott feels fucking pathetic but he can’t help it. He’s never felt this way about another person. 

He’s worried sick and frustrated and sad. He has absolutely no idea what to think and, in a city of over six million, nearly no hope of running into her on the street. 

Christmas comes and goes, he finishes the Hemingway book which makes him miss her even more, the weather gets colder, he hopes she keeps her coat buttoned up all the way, hopes she remembers a hat if she goes out. He checks libraries on a rotating basis for Moulin Rouge, as well as the local bookstores. Never, he believes has a book been more elusive. Fitting as the woman he’s hoping to unite a copy with seems to be just as slippery.

But then there she is one Monday, he has to stare at her for a moment to be sure she’s really there, standing in front of him looking as beautiful as he’s ever seen her, her hair worn half pulled back falling around her shoulders, black ribbed tights hugging her legs under her coat which, happily, is buttoned up nice and tight, though she’s not wearing a hat. She smiles at him with strawberry lips that make his heart race at once. 

There’s no crowd today as he hadn’t been able to rouse himself enough to play, but it’s for the best because then there’d be something obstructing his view of her and he might miss the way her hair blows in the cool wind or how her eyelashes flutter slightly when she looks at him. 

“Hi.” She says. 

“Hi.” Scott brings himself to say. “Hi, Tessa.” 

“Remember when you wanted to surprise me?” She asks

Scott nods, standing from the cold stone stairs he’s sitting on and taking his hat off for some reason he can’t place. Maybe he’s hoping she’ll wear it again. 

“I remember.” He says. 

She smiles sadly. “Would you tell me where you wanted to go?” She fiddles with her hands shyly. 

Scott nods and steps closer. “I wanted to take you to the Louvre.” 

He sees the way her eyes light up, but then her face falls. “I would like that.” She says quietly and stares down at her feet before looking back up at him. “Would you still want to go? With me, I mean.” 

Scott smiles wistfully. “Yeah.” He says, breathlessly. “I would.” 

Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should be upset with her, but he just can’t find it in himself to be anything but deliriously in love with her. 

He holds a hand out for her and she looks surprised. “Now?” She asks. “Don’t you have music to play?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Really?” She asks, cocking her head. “I can wait - I… I like hearing you play.” 

Scott smiles gently. That means a lot to him. 

“It’s cold.” He says. “I don’t want you to be cold.” 

“I’m _not_ cold.” She tells him and she sits down on the stair and tries (and fails) to hide a shiver. “I want to watch you.” She says. “And then we can go.” 

He can’t stop smiling. “Put this on.” He says, setting the hat on her head and pulling it down over her ears. She reaches her hands up and adjusts it and looks proud to be wearing it again. It sends his heart aflutter. 

His fingers find their place on the bow, on the board, play the strings just the same, just as easy as they’d done before she’d left. He plays a song that feels like freedom and joy and relief, and he looks up every so often to see her, her eyes half closed like she’s completely charmed, a smile on her lips. A few people pass by and some stand and listen as he plays, and he can hardly manage to tear his eyes away from her to nod his head in thanks at them. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of her. 

He plays two more songs and she looks completely enraptured. 

“Come here.” He says, patting the stair, hoping she’ll sit closer. 

She takes his cue, this gorgeous, seemingly beau monde woman sitting beside a street performer, his hat nestled upon her head. He smiles at the thought and plays her song, the one about the bluebird. He wonders if perhaps she wrote it about flying away. He can see her lips twitching like she’s eager to sing and he nods at her. “Go ahead.” He tells her. 

She smiles and blushes and shakes her head, but he nods again, going back to the first verse. She looks him in the eyes, smiling the whole time, as she begins to sing for him, her etherial voice gracing his ears once more. _Finally. Finally._ It feels like coming up for air. 

The crowd around them doubles but neither of them notices until they finish, they’re focused on each other’s eyes the entire time, jolted out of their reverie only when they hear the applause of the crows. Tessa flushes a whole new shade of red and Scott beams and bows his head. 

“Tessa Virtue!” He exclaims, introducing her. “Aussi talentueuse que belle, eh?” Scott says, sweeping his hand over at her and introducing her to the crowd. 

She laughs - especially at his _eh_ , and shakes her head. “Scott Moir.” She says, shyly. She claps for him and he wraps an arm around her and hugs her from the side, turning his head to whisper in her ear, “Let’s get out of here.” When he pulls back he stands and winks at her and she looks thrilled in a way that makes him incredibly proud. She takes his hand and he helps her up, stooping to pack up his violin in its case and sling it over his shoulder before taking her hand once more and thanking the crowd again as they head off.

He holds her hand tightly, wishing the fabric of her gloves weren’t between them. 

“You could be big time, you know that?” He asks her. He wants to ask her about where she’d been but decides it’ll be better if he eases into it. And he’s just so happy shes here, and she _sang_ with him.

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re crazy.” She tells him. “Besides, if you’re famous, all people want you to do is the thing you’re famous for.” 

He smiles. “Would that be so bad?” He thinks he’d be quite fine _only_ playing violin. 

Tessa shrugs. “I think I might feel limited.” 

He glances over at her, the look of her, beautiful eyes, lightly freckled cheeks, girlishly supple skin, the way she holds her head up proudly, her shoulders back, the exquisite profile of her face… it’s something out of a Jane Austen novel. 

She must feel him looking because she turns her face to his and he loses his breath and shakes his head, chuckling at his foolishness. 

“What?” She asks, thinking he’s laughing at her. 

He composes himself. “ _I’m_ not crazy.” He tells her. “Anyone who tries to limit the vastness of Tessa Virtue is crazy.” He gives her hand a squeeze. “You should do everything in the world you want to do.” He remembers telling her the same thing about why he can’t pick just one genre of music. 

She smiles softly and looks ahead of them. “I liked singing with you.” She says sweetly. “That was fun.” 

“Any time you want to sing with me, just say the word.” He says, “I’ll meet you anywhere.” 

“Has Gabriel let you play with him yet?” Tessa asks.

Scott cocks his head. “From the pub?” 

She nods. “No. He never seemed interested.” _He probably thinks I’m a complete loser_ , Scott thinks to himself.

“Oh.” She says. “What an idiot.” 

Scott hadn’t been expecting it and he chokes out a laugh. “Oh yeah?” He asks turning to her. 

She looks at him and nods. “Obviously.” She says, her tone serious, before she looks back ahead. 

Scott smiles softly to himself. He can feel his cheeks grow hotter. 

* * *

When they get to the Louvre, Scott goes to pay for tickets, but Tessa protests. “Please, let me, it’s the least -“ She doesn’t finish her sentence, choosing instead to redirect, “I want to.” 

Scott shakes his head, his heart twinging. She clearly feels guilty. Maybe she _does_ recognise that it hurts him when she leaves without any notice for weeks on end. 

But he shakes his head. “Now _you’re_ the crazy one.” He says. “It’s alright, I got this.” He doesn’t have a lot of money, but money’s not really been a _problem_ recently either, and he doesn’t want her to think that he can’t buy her things. All he wants to do is give her everything she ever wants. He knows the thought is ridiculous and she’d probably laugh her head off at him for thinking it, but he doesn’t care. He thinks that’s what she deserves, so there’s no way in hell she’s paying for the tickets. 

“Oh, come on, Scott.” She says. “I _can_ pay for my own things, you know.” 

He smiles at that hint of fire he likes so much, but he shakes his head and decides to level with her. He jiggles his violin case and the loose coins mixed in with the bills inside jingle. “That’s half yours.” He says. “At least enough for tickets, and maybe lunch afterward if you’re hungry?” He smiles hopefully at her and she sighs, nodding finally. 

They avoid most of the tourist attractions, walk through halls lined with paintings and ancient sculpture gardens. 

Scott can tell Tessa comes here often, she knows where everything is. 

“Do you write here?” He asks as she’s looking at a sculpture of a woman holding a child. She turns to him and nods. “Sometimes.” She says. “Sometimes I write about their stories.” She nods to the sculpture. “Sometimes they inspire me to write my own.” She sighs and smiles contentedly. “And it’s always quiet here. But not too quiet, if you know what I mean.” 

Scott smiles and nods. “I do.” He says. “Will you show me your favourite piece?” 

“Oh.” She says… “Yes, I can show you, but she’s quite famous, you’ve already seen her.” 

“Who?” He asks, endlessly curious. 

“Venus.” She says, as if she’s on a first name basis with the sculpture. “We don’t have to go see her, there are always a lot of people there.” 

“No.” Scott says, “If she’s your favourite we have to go pay her a visit. I thought you were all about being polite.” He winks at her and she rolls her eyes but can’t resist a smile. Scott can tell she’s excited to go see her. 

Scott’s seen her just once. Art museums aren’t exactly his usual stomping grounds, but he does enjoy looking from time to time, especially when he has Tessa here freely interpreting the pieces for him. He loves knowing her thoughts on things, how she processes things, and he can tell she likes this very much, which is enough of a reason for him to do pretty much anything. 

When they find the Venus de Milo, she’s surrounded by a small crowd, and they stand off toward the back, admiring from a distance. 

Scott watches the way Tessa’s lips twitch upward and she nods slightly as if greeting an old friend. 

He lets her have a silent conversation with the marble for a time before butting in. 

“What makes her your favourite?” He asks. 

“She’s…” Tessa swallows hard and keeps her eyes fixed on the statue as she speaks. “Nobody really knows who she is or where she’s from or where she’s been.” She says. “And…” She waves her arm out in front of her, gesturing at the crowd. “They like her anyway. They don’t call her a mystery or come up with funny nicknames, they just accept her. She could be _anyone_ , they don’t know. And she’s missing her arms.” She says quietly and Scott leans in closer so as not to miss anything she says. “She’s missing her arms and I just can’t help but feel like someone _took_ them from her, I mean, it seems intentional. They took her arms but she’s still so powerful. I’m sure it hurts her so much. I’m sure it hurt. I imagine she used her arms for something she loved, like music, or painting… and after they took them she couldn’t… couldn’t do those things anymore. But she doesn’t let it stop her, just look at her. Look at her face. She finds other things and she makes it ok.” Tessa nods. 

Scott doesn’t know what to say. That was clearly an emotional assessment, one he hadn’t been expecting since her other descriptions and interpretations had been so factual. 

He rests a hand on her lower back. “She’s pretty spectacular.” He agrees. 

Tessa stands there, her arms wrapped around herself, still watching the statue. 

“You still have your legs, you know.” He says, and her head whips over to look at him. 

“What?” 

“You said you don’t dance here, even though it was your favourite thing to do…” He says. He can’t help but pick up on the parallels. “Nobody took your legs, Tess. Whatever happened… you can still dance. I’ll do it with you if you want… And I know you don’t feel like people know you, but I’m really trying to and -“ 

“Scott.” She says, shaking her head. “No, I wasn’t trying to relate her to me.” 

He cocks his head and gives her a look. 

“I wasn’t!” She insists. 

“Okay.” He says, “But even so, that holds true. If you want to dance…” 

She shakes her head. “I don’t.” 

“Okay.” He says softly. 

They stand there in silence for a while longer before she asks quietly, still not looking at him, “Aren’t you mad at me?” 

“Why would I be mad?” He asks, wishing she would look at him. 

She shrugs. “Because I disappeared again.” 

“Do you want me to be mad?” He asks. 

She shakes her head, wraps her arms even more tightly around her stomach. “No.” 

“Did you think I would be?” He asks. 

She stares at Venus. “Maybe.” 

He sets a hand back on her back and she seems to focus even harder on the statue. “I’m not mad.” He says. “But I was worried sick. Was it… what I said before you left?” 

“No.” She says. 

Scott lets out a breath of relief. “I still feel that way, you know.” He tells her. 

She shakes her head. “I told you not to say things like that.” 

“I didn’t explicitly _say_ it.” He says, smiling slightly and tickling her back. He’s trying to make her smile. She seems sad. 

She looks over at him and lets her shoulders relax. 

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” He says. “That’s enough for now.” 

She looks at him appreciatively. “Do you have a favourite piece?” She asks. 

He reaches for her hand and she lets him take it. “I’ll show you.” He says. 

Despite hardly ever coming here, there’s a piece that’s stuck with him from the first time he saw it. 

He leads her into the sunlit room where it’s kept, just in front of a large paned window that allows light to flow in, bathing the marble in white gold. 

“ _Psyché Ranimée par le Baiser de l’Amour_.” He says. 

“Psyche Revived by the Kiss of Love.” Tessa repeats in english, thinking on the title. She’s still holding his hand but she brings her free hand to her lips, running her fingers across them gently. She smiles slyly. 

“What?” He asks. 

“You’re mushy.” She says, giggling. 

He laughs as well. “Only for the right person.” He winks. 

She quiets. “Why is it your favourite?” 

“I just think it’s beautiful.” He says. “I like the way he’s holding her and the way he’s reaching for him. I don’t think it’s about him _saving_ her, I think it’s about how love can sometimes overpower the worst things in life.” 

She thinks about this and looks uneasy. 

“Made you think, eh?” He says, smiling. “It’s also based on a story from a Latin book called _The Golden Ass_.” He laughs. “So that could have something to do with my liking it too. It’s just too funny.” 

“Ass meaning _donkey._ ” Tessa informs him. 

Scott shuffles his feet. “Well, like all great works of art, I think that’s up for interpretation.” He says, grinning. 

She shakes her head at him but can’t help laughing. She turns back to the sculpture after a moment and Scott enjoys the fact that she seems to be thinking in depth about it. 

It really is is favourite and he finds it very beautiful. He thinks about their relationship and wonders if he’s Psyche or Cupid in this scenario. It feels like they’re saving one another. She’s certainly saving him, and he thinks he might be doing the same for her, forcing her out of the tight shell she’s burrowed herself into for reasons he wishes he knew. He’s the mushy one, and she’s stoic as she can manage. She’s his Psyche and he thinks his love for her will overcome all odds, he just hopes that she’ll feel the same one day. He laughs at the thought, thinks perhaps he might be a bit dramatic, but quite honestly it feels like a dramatic situation. He laughs as he thinks that life truly does imitate art. Or is it the other way around?

* * *

They have lunch at a small café down the road and as Scott’s finishing the last of his tea, Tessa looks at him. 

“I was in a ballet company in Canada.” She says, completely unprompted, and Scott raises his eyebrows and looks at her over his glass. 

“Volkoff Canadian Ballet.” She continues. “I was a principal dancer.” She sighs sadly. “It was everything to me. It was my whole life.” 

“Ballet?” Scott breathes. “Wow, Tessa, I… you must have been a beautiful dancer…” He’s at a loss for words as he imagines her in a tutu, leaping across the stage. It certainly explains her strength and grace. He wishes he could watch her dance now. 

She shrugs and takes a sip of her tea. “I miss it so much.” She says. “There was another company, The Royal Winnipeg Ballet, and I’ve just heard they’re going to merge the companies, choose the best dancers and create the National Ballet of Canada.” She looks down at her tea sadly. 

“And you would have been a part of it.” He says, reaching out for her hand. She takes his. 

“I don’t know if they would choose me…” She says. 

“Of course they would.” He states without ever having seen her dance. He’s just positive she’s fantastic. 

She plays with his fingers, pulling on them slightly and he smiles at it. 

“Anyway,” She says, looking down at where she’s fidgeting with his hand, “It’s doesn’t matter now. I’m here. And I don’t dance here.” 

Scott swallows roughly. This hurts him to say, but he cares so much for her that he can’t not say it. “Why don’t you go back?” He asks. “If that’s what you truly love doing. You could go back to Canada.” 

She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple.” She says. 

“But you-“ 

“I can’t go back to Canada right now.” She says firmly. 

He nods. “Okay.” He says. “Well, what about the Opera Ballet? I’ve seen posters-“ 

“I don’t dance here.” She reminds him once more, and then her face softens and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” She says. “It’s just hard to talk about sometimes. Can we talk about something else?” 

It’s more than he’s expected her to give him and it had been of her own accord. It feels like progress and Scott won’t push her if she wants to stop there. 

“Sure.” He says, nodding and squeezing her hand. “Hey, have you found _Moulin Rouge_ yet?” He asks. 

Her expression relaxes. “No.” She says, slightly disappointedly. “I’ve been looking everywhere but nobody seems to have it.” 

Scott nods. “Yeah, I’ve been keeping my eye out just in case.” 

Tessa smiles. “Thank you.” She tells him. 

“You got it.” He says softly. 

* * *

After lunch, Tessa tells him she ought to be going, but he stops her. “I just… I got you a Christmas gift.” He says. “It’s at my flat since I didn’t know when…” He doesn’t want to make her feel sad or guilty for being away. “I was waiting until I saw you again.” 

“Oh, no, Scott.” She says. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

He smiles. “Well, I did.” He tells her. “Will you walk back that way with me? It’s in the right direction, yeah?” 

She nods. “Yes.” 

They reach his flat and she follows him inside, letting the warm air rush over her, a welcome respite from the chilly outside temperatures.

“Let me just grab it.” He says, pulling a kitchen chair out for her to sit. 

She takes a place at his table and he goes into his room and pulls the gift out of his closet.

He comes back into the kitchen and places the pink gift bag on the table in front of her. “For you.” He says softly. “Happy Christmas.” 

She opens the bag delicately to reveal a soft, black leather journal. She holds it in her hands and brushes her fingers across the cover. 

Scott smiles as he sees the way she handles it as if it could break.

She looks up at him with a look he can’t place. _Sorrow_? _Pity_?

It makes him nervous but then she smiles. “I love it.” She tells him. “Oh, it’s beautiful.” She flips through the pages and giggles. “I’ll have to get writing.” 

Scott beams. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” 

She smooths her fingers over the paper and he can’t help the feeling that washes over him - that he’d like to buy her absolutely everything in the world.

She turns to him and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against his. He lets his arms settle around her waist, holding her firmly, wishing she would stay here for a while. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you.” She says sadly. 

“That’s alright.” He says. “I love hearing what you write so consider it a gift for both of us.”

She looks up at him half worried, but he laughs, which makes her laugh in turn. 

But then, she presses up onto her toes, and her lips slot against his naturally. His eyes close on instinct, his tongue running across hers, tasting her. He feels her hand slip from around his neck and close around his wrist on her back. She pushes it downward to the swell of her ass, and Scott moans into the kiss as she squeezes his hand and he gets to feel her. She’s soft but supple and somehow muscular at the same time and he drops his other hand down to palm the other side of her, pulling somewhat forcefully toward him so that she stumbles forward, their lips breaking for just an instant as she catches herself on his chest. He feels her breath as she laughs softly against his lips. 

He shivers as she lets her hands fall from his neck and her nails scrape down his back over the material of his shirt. She plays with the hemline for a moment as she works her tongue against his before slipping her fingertips just under the waist of his pants and trailing her nails along the skin there. 

Scott groans and slips a leg between hers, feeling her dress ride up from where he holds her still. He lets his hands move lower, to the back of her thighs where he enjoys the ribbed texture of her tights before his fingers trail upward, until he can feel the junction between her thighs and ass. He strokes his fingers there gently and feels her lean forward, putting pressure on her centre where his leg is between hers. 

Her hands slide lower, nails leaving a teasing trail downward before scratching their way back up. 

He feels like he’s on fire again and she’s both the water and the gasoline. 

He sees stars when she rolls her hips against his and it’s only then he realises how rock hard he is. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, knowing that there’s no way she didn’t feel him, but when she rocks against that same spot again and again, forcing deep moans from him, he realises that she’s doing it on purpose, which only makes him want her more. He grabs a handful of her and it’s her turn to moan, undulating her svelte little body against his, the friction causing a wild rush of lust to shoot through him, centering at the deep ache in his pants. 

She’s clawing at his shirt now, pulling it up and over his torso, their lips parting just briefly again as she forces his arms up so she can get it off of him. His hands are back on her in an instant, circling her hips as hers explore the expanse of his chest, her right hand ghosting over his side and her left stroking upward. She pushes him backward and he complies blindly, too enraptured by the way she’s touching him to care where they end up. She could push him out the window and he wouldn’t protest as long as they continue doing this. 

Thankfully, they end up on the sofa, Scott sprawled out on his back and Tessa straddling his waist, her dress up by her hips. 

His hands slip under, play with the waist of her tights as she’s leaning over him, but suddenly she pulls back, their lips parting as she sits up. 

She looks so fucking beautiful Scott swears he’ll never be impressed with anything ever again, not a nice sunset, not a gorgeous garden, not a remarkable composition, not a snow-covered countryside, not the greatest pieces of art in the world. There’s nothing that will best the beauty of her straddling him with her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen and her hair mussed. Nothing. 

He reaches out to stroke her cheek but she seizes his hand before he can and places it on her breast. 

“Fuck.” He breathes, and then he grimaces at his vulgarity and looks back up at her. “I’m sorry, I -“ But she just smiles slyly and squeezes his hand around her breast, her eyes closing as she sucks her lip between her teeth and whimpers softly.

“Oh. Tess…” He says, desperately, pressing his hips up against her. 

His free hand, which has been resting on her hip comes up to fondle her other breast, his fingers tracing the peak of her hardened nipple through the fabric of her dress. He closes his eyes and thinks it’s a cruel and ironic punishment that he can’t watch the lascivious expression on her face as she rocks against him if he hopes not to come right then and there.

She lets go of his hand, but his stays glued to her, caressing her salaciously until he feels like he’s going to explode. 

He pushes himself up and smiles at her surprised expression before leaning forward to nuzzle her neck, leaving sloppy, libidinous kisses downward, all the way to her neckline while he pulls gently on her nipples. She’s panting against him, undulating her hips, and as he’s kissing his way across her chest, she takes his hand from her breast and places it between them, where their hips are joined.

“Oh…” He moans lowly, his fingers circling her through the fabric and making her breath hitch. 

She pushes on his chest and he falls back onto the sofa, powerless to her will. She lets him touch her centre as she undoes his pants, lifting her hips slightly to pull them down, and then teasing him with her palm through his boxers until he’s grunting and bucking against her. His hands fly to the waist of her tights, but she stills them and shakes her head. “Just like this.” She says softly, her voice carrying that sensual raspy quality about it that she normally has when she’s singing. 

He nods and lets his hands slide down to her thighs instead, gripping her tightly and helping her grind against him. He wants so badly to get her out of her clothes. He wants to see her whole perfect form, exposed to him from head to toe, he wants to worship her the way she deserves, the way he’s dreamt about, but he’s not going to do anything she doesn’t want and if she wants to lead, then he’s going to follow. 

But it doesn’t stop him from touching her with abandon, rubbing her through her clothes.

She watches him with her lips parted beautifully, like it’s something she’s never seen before. He wishes more than anything he could tear her clothes off and put his mouth on her.

“Can I?” She asks suddenly, her hands curling around the waistband of his underclothes. He looks up at her and she’s biting her lip, a wanton look in her eyes. 

He nods. _Please_. She folds them down, exposing just the tip of him, trapping his shaft under the elastic and it feels like the greatest ache he’s ever known. He rolls his hips and watches her lick her lips and it’s almost too much. 

Then her hand is on him. Her fingertips ghosting over his tip. She looks enthralled and he groans lowly as her eyes light up when she milks the precum from his cock. 

“Tessa.” He grunts. 

She meets his eyes. 

“I love you.” He says, the words pouring straight from his heart. 

“Shh.” She whispers, leaning closer and ghosting her lips over his. “What did I tell you about that?” 

He starts to tell her he doesn’t care, but his voice dies as she forcefully pulls his waistband lower, freeing him completely and stroking her hand down his length, her grip tight on him.

“Oh…” Is all he can manage.

She smiles playfully, pulling her hand away and watching as his cock jumps up toward her, chasing her touch. 

But then he reaches between her legs and rolls his fingers in just the right motion and she throws her head back and gasps. Scott grins and continues touching her. 

“Like that.” She whispers and lowers herself against his bare cock. They both moan at the contact and she begins rocking her hips up and down the length of him, his hand still working her between them.

He’d give his last breath to remove the fabric keeping her from him, but she doesn’t want it and he’s lucky enough to have _this_. 

He reaches with his free hand up to her neck and pulls her down over him so he can kiss her again and he feels her moan and then gasp as she shakes against him, whimpering softly as she comes atop him. 

She licks languidly into his mouth as she continues rocking against him and it sends him over the edge. He comes between them, thick ropes of it coating his bare chest. 

He can’t see anything immediately after, but he can feel her hand between them as she kisses him still, her hand flat on his chest, spreading his cum around, reveling in the feel of it. 

He moans into her mouth and she pulls back, smiling cunningly as she takes her hand up and slips three fingers into her mouth, tasting his cum and humming satisfactorily. His hands fly to his face, covering his expression so she won’t see how utterly destroyed he is. 

And then he feels the sofa shift and the pressure of her on his hips disappears. He’s dismayed for a moment, but relaxes when she settles down beside him, curling her body around his, resting her head on his bicep and her hand on his chest. He opens his eyes and smiles softly at her, his free hand stroking her hair gently. “You’re perfect.” He tells her. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.” 

She smiles and pokes his chest. “I’m not a _thing_.” She tells him, and he must look just as dismayed as he’d just felt because she starts laughing that gorgeous, infectious, guileless laugh that has him smiling at her, dumbly in love. 

“You know what I meant.” He says, and she blushes. 

“That was fun.” She says, ignoring his comment as per usual. 

He strokes the back of his fingers tenderly across her cheek and her smile fades slightly from her face. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He tells her.

“Scott.” She warns, and he smiles. “Don’t say things like that?” He asks. She nods.

“Too late.” He says, and he pulls her in playfully and presses kisses to her cheeks. 

They lay there, Scott stroking Tessa’s hair, Tessa’s fingertips drawing patterns on his bare chest, until Scott falls asleep. 

When he wakes up, she’s gone. He groans, wondering if it had all been just a dream, but he can tell from the way the cushion smells like her that it was real. He smiles to himself as he gets up, wishing she’d woken him before she’d gone, but glad it hadn’t ended like last time. 

He heads to the kitchen, ravenous, when he sees a scrap of paper on his kitchen table. It’s from the journal that he’d gotten her. There are words scrawled across it in the most lovely penmanship he’s ever seen. It doesn’t surprise him one bit that it’s crafted from her hand, because it’s just as delicate. 

He reads the words over at least twenty times and finds himself working them over and over in his head what feels like hundreds of times after that. 

_All of the beautiful words he whispers to her_

_Grow flowers in her mind_

_Bursting through barren soil and broken glass_

_She tends to them as best she can_

_And waits in dread for the day they die_

_xx -T._

_Thank you for the hat._

_Thank you for today._

_Happy late Christmas._

In the corner is the print of her lips in the pretty pink lipstick she was wearing. He runs his fingers across it. He feels like she may as well have carved it into his heart. 


	6. Chapter 6

To Scott’s surprise, Tessa shows up on Monday to sing with him. And she shows up Wednesday as well. She’s at the pub on Friday telling Gabriel he’s an idiot and Scott couldn’t possibly be any more in love with her. 

He has her poem pinned up on the wall of his bedroom. He’s not completely sure what to make of it. He finds it beautiful in a very melancholic type of way, but doesn’t like the fact that she thinks his adoration will die, but if anything it makes him resolve to show her otherwise. To prove to her that there _are_ things she can depend on, that there _are_ people she can trust, people she can _like_. Maybe even more than like. 

She joins him Monday and Wednesday of the following week as well. He buys her flowers, they go back to his flat after playing out in the cold all afternoon and drink wine and kiss and touch each other and if he falls even deeper in love with her and her gentle nature. She’s humble and sweet but fiery and impassioned as well. 

He’s endlessly fascinated by her mind, the way she weaves words together, the way she processes every little thing around them. 

He loves seeing her wearing the hat he got her, he loves the idea that he’s helping to keep her warm, that she might think of him when she wears it. He certainly thinks of her all the time. 

He’s still on the search for Moulin Rouge, but hasn’t had any luck thus far. 

Things seem to be going his way, otherwise though and he really couldn’t be happier.

They’re laying on his sofa, Tessa curled into his side her eyes turned upward, watching the snow fall from the little view his window provides. 

He strokes her hair and smiles softly at how peaceful he feels with her warmth against him, his old navy woolen blanket pulled over them. 

“Are you happy here?” She asks, pulling him from his reverie. 

“What do you mean?” He asks. 

“In France.” She says. “I realised I’ve never asked you.” 

“Oh.” He says. 

He hadn’t been. Before he’d met her he’d wanted more than anything to go back to Canada, to be near his family, to be _home,_ but had he not been stuck in France, he’d never have met _her_ , and, though it’s only been a few months, he can’t imagine his life without her.

They’re not dating, and yet they’re quite certainly more than friends. Scott knows where he stands, he’d marry her in an instant, but she still won’t let him tell her he loves her. Even so, he wants nothing more than to be with her. And if she’s still here, he thinks she might be warming up to him. She certainly seems to enjoy his company, the way she’s nestled against him, the way she’s come to sing with him every Monday and Wednesday for the past few weeks, the way she comes over to spend time with him without either of them having to suggest it at all. It all just feels so natural. 

“I’m happy.” He says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

She keeps her eyes on his. “But do you want to be in France?”

“I want to be wherever you are.” 

She rolls her eyes up to the top of her head as she tends to do when he gets bathetic, and he tickles her side. “It’s true.” He says. “Are _you_ happy here?” 

“I love Paris.” She says softly. “But Toronto’s home.” 

He smiles sadly and strokes her cheek. “I know what you mean.” He says. “We could go back. You and I.” 

She chews her lip. “You can’t, though, can you?” 

He sighs. “Well… Not until they approve it. And they’re certainly taking their time. Guess that’s what I deserve.” 

“Of course it’s not what you deserve.” She says, looking at him intensely. 

“I didn’t make them a priority so why should I expect they’d do that for me?” He asks. He’s thought a lot about it. He loves Canada, he just doesn’t love war. 

“I deserted my own men.” He says. “Some of them could have died because of me. They hate me, and I don’t blame them. ” 

“You can’t say that.” She says. “You don’t know that. And it’s not like they even give people a chance or a _choice_ , they just ship them off like they’re nothing.” 

He looks away from her, down at their feet, twined together and covered by the blanket. 

She strokes her fingers across his shoulder. “You’re a good man.” She says softly. “And the war is over. They’re losing out keeping you over here.” She rests a hand on his cheek, turning his face to hers and nuzzling his nose. She presses her lips to his for a soft kiss.

“Hm.” He hums, smiling at the buzzing feeling that goes through him. “You trying to get rid of me?” 

She shakes her head. “Never.” She whispers, moving her hand upward to run her fingers through his hair. He shuts his eyes and enjoys the sensation. “I just want you to be happy.” 

He opens his eyes and smiles at her, pulling her onto his chest and hugging her close. “As long as you’re around, I’m the happiest man on Earth.” He says. 

“Shut up.” She mumbles against him. 

He chuckles but tightens his arms around her. She’s sweet for asking him, sweet for feeling concerned, and she _cares_ , which means everything. 

“I love you, Tessa.” He says. 

“That’s not what shut up means.” She says softly. 

He looks down at her and runs a hand up her back. “What’s so bad about that?” He asks. “I do, I love you.” 

“How do you know that?” She asks. 

“Because I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” 

“That’s called infatuation… Maybe distraction.” 

Scott chuckles and shakes his head. “I want to do everything and nothing with you.” He tells her. “I feel like I wasn’t even living before I met you.” 

“Oh, Scott.” She sighs like he’s being dramatic, and maybe it sounds that way but it’s truly how he feels. 

“I mean it.” He says. “I would marry you if you’d let me.” He’s half joking but only because he knows she’ll think it’s ridiculous. Even still, he feels her grow tense in his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

“I just don’t like… _that_.” She says. 

“Marriage?” He asks, finding it slightly amusing she won’t even say the word. “Why not?” 

“It changes people.” She says, resting her head back on his chest, her body relaxing again as he strokes her gently. 

Scott chews his lip. “I don’t know about that.” He says. “Do you think _I’d_ change?” 

“Maybe…” She trails off, thinking as her fingers run down the line of muscle in his neck. Even an innocent gesture like that drives him absolutely wild fo her. 

“Maybe you’d be mean.” She says softly. 

“Mean?” He asks. “To who? _You_?” 

She raises her head to look at him and he realises his tone had risen about two octaves, but the idea is just so absurd. 

“I would never be mean to you, why would you think that?” 

She looks down at where her hands rest now by his collar and plucks at the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know.” She says. 

“Hey, look at me.” He says softly. 

She raises her eyes to his and he studies them. He feels like he might as well be scholar on them at this point, have a degree in colour theory specifically for knowing each and every variant in them. He watches her pupils expand as she looks at him and feels her body soften in his arms. 

He strokes a hand through her hair and she sighs softly. “I would never be mean to you.” He whispers, and kisses her nose. “Never in a million years, no matter what. I could only ever love you.” 

She doesn’t move an inch, just keeps her eyes locked on his like she’s trying to figure out some complicated theorem. 

He smiles gently at her. “You’re beautiful when you’re confused.” He chuckles. “Why is that so hard to believe?” 

He watches her chew nervously on her lip. “I’m not very easy to love.” She whispers, her voice raspy. 

Scott’s lips part at the sound, at her words. “Tessa.” He breathes. “Why in the world would you think that?” 

She shakes her head. “It just feels that way sometimes.” 

Scott nuzzles her nose. “Have I ever made you feel that way?” He asks. _“Ever?”_

She blushes slightly and shakes her head. “No.” She says in a whisper. 

He smiles gently and strokes her cheek. “You’re the _easiest_ thing to love, kiddo. I was head over heels the moment I saw you.” 

He sees her lips twitch up and it makes him feel better. “You’re disgusting.” She whispers and he laughs, pulling her back against him and kissing her head. “I know.” He says. “Just for you.” He feels her smiling against his neck and strokes her hair. “I love you no matter what.” He says. 

He feels her smile fade. “What if I did something awful?” She asks. 

Scott looks down at her. “Like what?” 

“Like what if…” She sighs. “What if I robbed a bank?” 

Scott can’t help but laugh picturing it. “I’d still love you.” He says. “And we could get a really nice apartment.” 

She smiles halfheartedly and he kisses her temple. 

* * *

It becomes somewhat of a game between them, Tessa asking all these what if’s and Scott telling her - truthfully - each time that he’d still love her. 

_What if my hair turned green, what if all my teeth fell out, what if I breathed out of my mouth all the time, what if I couldn’t sing or write or even talk, what if I got really ill and and couldn’t care for myself, what if I forgot how to tie shoes, what if I killed somebody?_

_Green is my favourite colour, I’d blend all your meals up, I like listening to you breathe, we’d learn sign language, I’d care for you, I’d get you ones that buckle, I’d run away with you._

Scott’s not bothered by them, he finds the different scenarios she comes up with rather amusing, but he wishes she would accept the fact that he’s going to love her no matter what. He wishes she weren’t so worried. 

She comes to see him one Thursday night at his flat. He’s asked her over, told her it’s important, and she’d promised to bet there. She knocks on his door early and he’d been in the shower, dinner still cooking in the over. He scrambled to get a towel wrapped around his waist before opening the door. She’s there in her red woolen hat and black button coat, her winter boots and leggings, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and gorgeous as ever. He lets himself breathe and then realises she’s biting her lip. 

“Sorry.” She says, breathlessly. “Were you in the shower?” 

“No.” He smiles, flipping his wet hair back out of his eyes. “I just thought this was a good look.”

Her eyes track a stray drop of water as it descends down his chest before she realises his joke and laughs distractedly. 

He grins. 

“I’m excited.” She says. “F-for… to hear your news. That’s why I’m early, I just… couldn’t wait and…” 

He laughs and steps back so that she can come in. “Well, I can tell you now or we can have dinner and-“ 

“Now.” She says quickly, and he chuckles. She really does need to know everything. “Tell me now.” She says. 

He takes a seat at the kitchen table and lets his legs fall apart out of instinct before he realises he’s still in a towel. He sees her eyes dart downward, her cheeks colouring as she forces her eyes back on his. He suppresses a smile as best he can. “Sorry.” He says. “I can change.” He starts to get up but she shakes her head. “No, no. I want to know _now_.”

He laughs at how adorable she is. 

“Okay.” He says, enjoying how captivated he has her. “So the other day I got this letter…” 

She nods eagerly and he smiles. “And it was from…” 

“Who?” She demands, before he can even tell her. 

He beams. “From Canada.” He says. “Well, the department of immigration and citizenship.” 

She stares at him for a moment. “And it’s… good news?” She asks hopefully, and he nods. 

She lets out a little yelp and jumps excitedly. “Oh my goodness, _Scott_! That’s so amazing! What did they say? What did they say?” 

He chuckles. “They said they’ve reviewed my case and they’d like me to agree on a date for return.” 

She jumps up and down and rushes over to him, straddling his legs and sitting on his lap, arching her back and pressing against his chest so she can wrap her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, squeezing her tightly.

Her hand fists in his hair and she kisses his cheek and whispers in his ear, “I’m _so_ happy for you.” 

He closes his eyes and breathes in her scent, enjoys the weight of her atop him. He’s just so happy he can share this moment with her. She pulls back and holds his face in his hands. “Are you happy?” She asks, almost as if she’s saying _are you happy_ _now_ _?_

He runs his hands up and down her thighs. “I was happy _before_.” He tells her. “I didn’t need this to be happy.” 

She gives him a look and he laughs. “But I’m happy now, too.” He says, and she looks satisfied.

“Good.” She says softly and lets her fingers move to his chest, stroking his bare skin. He watches her movements, feels his skin prickle with goosebumps at her gentle touch. 

“I’m so excited for you.” She says softly. 

He smiles. “Well, it’s not happening yet.” He says. “There’s a lot to work out.” 

“It’ll all work out fine.” She says surely. 

He laughs. “Is that so? I didn’t know you could see the future.” 

She shrugs. “I’m multitalented.” She runs a fingernail over his nipple and he groans softly. “Well,” He sighs, standing, holding her around his waist and carrying her over to the counter where he sets her down. “ _That_ I did know.” 

She smirks at him and he leans in to kiss her before plucking her hat off and tossing it onto the table behind them and undoing the buttons of her coat. 

She loops her legs around his waist and pulls him against her, her arms going back around his neck. 

He smiles adoringly at her and kisses her nose. “I love you.” He tells her. 

He sees her look down, away from him and tilts her chin back up with his index finger. “Hey.” He says. “I know there’s bad things in the world, and maybe things have been hard but I’m not going to stop saying things like that, Tess. Ever. Because they’re never going to change, no matter what.” 

“You must not have liked my poem then.” She teases, smiling sadly. 

He runs his hand up her neck and lets it splay in her hair, leaning forward and kissing her at the base of her neck, sucking on her skin and laving his way upward, feeling her angle herself to give him better access. He kisses his way up to her ear and nibbles on her there before working the underside of her jaw, savouring her smooth, sweetness and the way she sighs for him. 

He nuzzles her nose and presses his forehead to hers. “I loved your poem.” He says, stroking her cheek. “It was beautiful.” He lets his lips fall against hers, kissing her deeply before pulling back and whispering, “But they’re never going to die.” He ducks his head to kiss her again but she pushes on his chest. 

“What if I -” She starts to ask, but Scott interrupts. 

“I’d still love you.” 

“But what if I were…” He watches her face turn ashen, her breath shaky. 

“Hey.” He says. “I love you. I love you…” He takes a deep breath and decides to take a chance. “And I think you love me too.” 

She stares at him a moment before she shakes her head and wipes at her eyes, tears starting to collect there despite her best efforts to quell them. “I don’t like-“ 

Scott nods. “I know.” He says soflty, kissing her cheek. “You don’t like anyone. But you never said you don’t _love_ anyone, eh?” He smiles hopefully and it feels like less of a reach now. He really thinks she could love him. 

A tear falls from her eye and breaks Scott’s heart. She covers her face with her hands but he grips her wrists and pulls them away, leaning his forehead against hers. “It’s ok.” He says softly, pulling her against his chest and hugging her tightly. “I got you.” 

She snakes her arms around his neck once more and presses her face into his shoulder. Scott can tell she’s holding her breath, fighting as hard as she can against the emotions bubbling up inside. He rubs her back slowly and kisses her hair. “It’s ok, Tess.” He says. “I’m right here. I got you. I’m sorry if it’s hard.”

She sobs and shakes her head against him. “It’s easy.” She whispers, her voice breaking as she clutches him closer. 

“Hey, hey, kiddo.” He whispers, pulling back so he can see her. She tries to hide her face again but he won’t let her. He’s never seen anyone look so beautiful crying. Her eyelashes are matted and thick and her eyes glimmer with tears unshed, her cheeks are pink and her lips are swollen. He presses his own lips to hers softly, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks. “Last time I checked easy wasn’t a bad thing.” He whispers, smiling weakly. 

Her bottom lip quivers and he kisses it again, sucking gently. Her fingers curl into his hair at the base of his neck. “You’re so good.” She whispers. “You’re such a good man.” She shakes her head. “And I… I can’t…” Her voice breaks and she sobs again, prompting Scott to pull her back into his arms. “Come here.” He whispers. 

He lifts her again and she wraps her legs around his waist so he can carry her to the sofa. He feels silly now in just his towel. He sits down with her straddling him and holds her face once more. “You’re good too, Tess.” He tells her and she shakes her head. “I’m not.” She whispers. He kisses her cheeks, tasting the brine of her tears. 

“Of course you are.” He says. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

She lets out a breath and Scott strokes a few strands of stray hair from her face. He holds her cheeks so she’ll look at him. “Tell me the truth, Tess.” He says. “Do you love me?” 

She loses her breath and swallows roughly. 

“Tell me.” He says gently as her hands grip his wrists. He smiles at her, feeling his heart in his throat.

“Yes.” She says softly, and Scott feels like the whole world melts away, like nothing before this has ever mattered.

“Yes. I love you.” She says breathlessly. 

He sighs. He can actually _hear_ his heart, pounding in his ears. He shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to hers, sighing deeply. “Then we can make _anything_ work.” He tells her.

And then his lips are on hers, kissing her desperately. He thinks about the woman with the strawberry lips, the  dame qui disparaît. They don’t even exist anymore. Because now he feels like he knows _her_. It’s just _Tessa_ , now. And Tessa’s all he ever wants. 

And when they part for air, Scott decides to say the words that have been playing on his mind from the moment he got the letter. “And when I finally get the green light we can move back to Canada together… if that’s something you’d want.”

He’s smiling hopefully at her, his eyes pleading with her to say yes. He wants to return to Canada, and she’d said she had as well so why wouldn’t this be the perfect time, the perfect reason to start a new life together there. 

But she presses her palm to his chest, pushing him away. 

“What if-“ 

He shakes his head. “No more what if’s, Tess. I want you no matter what.” 

“But what if I were married?” She blurts. 

Scott looks at her for a moment, an uneasy feeling in his gut. “Tess.” He says softly. “You don’t have to do this anymore, okay? No more coming up with worst case scenarios.” 

She looks down, tears clouding her eyes once more. “What if I’m not making that one up.” She says, her voice breaking. 

“What?” He says almost immediately. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

She looks up at him with the most pitiful look he’s ever seen on her face. “I’m so sorry.” She says. “I’m so sorry, Scott.” 

“No… I-“ He stammers. He can’t quite get a handle on the situation, how quickly things had gone from perfection to nightmarish. 

“Tessa… I… I don’t understand.” 

She bites her lip to hold back a sob but it comes out as a whimper. “I don’t love him.” She says, her hands moving toward Scott’s face, but he stops her by holding her wrists and lowers them. She looks absolutely heartbroken. “I don’t love him.” 

She pushes herself off of him and stands, shaking slightly. He can’t even bring himself to move. He feels like he’s paralyzed. 

“I don’t love him.” She repeats once more. 

Scott shuts his eyes, wishes he could shut his ears. He feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“I just couldn’t _not_ tell you anymore.” She says, her voice frantic. “I thought-“ 

“Why wouldn’t you tell me _before_? _Sooner_?” Scott manages to choke out. _Before I fell in love with you_ he thinks. _Before you became my whole world._

“I thought… I thought it wouldn’t matter at first… I never thought you’d actually be interested in me.” 

Scott scoffs. “Tessa _everyone’s_ interested in you.” He says harshly and immediately regrets his tone. 

“Everyone’s interested in _sex_.” She bites back, and Scott shuts his mouth. “That’s all anyone ever wants at those bars, I didn’t think you’d be any different.” 

“Well, you were wrong.” He says. 

“I was.” She chokes. 

“And you still didn’t tell me.” He says. “It’s not like you’ve been thinking that way all along, I’ve been telling you I’m in love with you for months.” 

He hears her sigh and sniffle. “I know.” She says sadly. “I guess… I didn’t want it to end. It felt so nice to be… To be loved and cared for and… I’m so sorry, it was so, _so_ selfish of me.” 

“I don’t know what to… I can’t- can’t think.” He says, the words all jumbled in his head, his heart twisting in his chest. 

How had he been so stupid? So blind? Of _course_ she was married, of _course_ she was, that’s why she was always so careful, that’s why she always needed to be home by a certain time. That’s why he was never allowed over.

He thinks of her poem… the day the flowers die. 

He wonders if she helps her husband with his French as well. He wonders if she cooked the coq au vin for him, thinks it’s probably why she wanted to learn to make it even though she doesn’t like it. 

His stomach heaves at the thought of her in bed with him. _Pleasuring_ him, letting him _touch_ her. He wonders if she _likes_ it. He wonders if she went home after fucking him and let him touch her then. 

And then he grows furious that _he,_ whatever the hell his name is, gets to share her mornings and _he_ gets to kiss her goodnight every night, _he_ gets to see her wake up, all sleepy and languid and gentle and warm. _He_ gets to watch her brush her silken hair and try on all her pretty dresses and listen to her laugh. _He_ gets to hold her and kiss her and tell her he loves her with abandon, without her telling him not to, without her shaking her head, feeling sorry for him. _He_ gets to watch her write her beautiful poetry, listen to her sing while she tends her flowers, wash her body clean in the shower, caress her so softly and sweetly that she cries, kiss her tears away and be privy to their reason, know that when she leaves he’s going to see her again - that same night, even, know that she’s not just going to leave forever.

She buries her face in her hands. “I wish I could change things.” She says. “I wish I could fix it.” 

He can’t stand to see her cry no matter the circumstance. He’s about to reach for her when he smells something burning. _Dinner._

“Shit.” He manages, rushing over to the oven, ramming the table out of the way on his way over, needing some sort of release from the frustration. He jams his hand in an oven mitt and yanks the oven open, pulling the burnt ratatouille he’d made out and letting it fall on the stovetop with a clank. 

He leans over the counter and buries his head in his hands, breathing shakily, sobs tearing from his lungs, and when he finds the strength in himself to turn around, she’s gone, slipped out the door as silently as she’d slipped into his heart. He doesn’t know her - la dame qui disparaît.

He tries to follow after her but he'd still been in his towel and needed to throw some clothes on and by the time he makes it out onto the street, she’s gone. _Gone home to her husband,_ he thinks with a lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He takes his violin and walks the night streets until he finds a plaza to play in and he pours his heart out into a song for her. _Of_ her? _By_ her? He’s composing it on the fly, but it feels like her hand is on his, guiding his movements. She has every part of him and he’s powerless to do anything about it. People stop to watch him, leave him money that he could care less about, and then it starts to rain and _how fitting,_ he thinks. But he plays the song over at least five more times until he works out the kinks. He could never capture the way he feels about her in a song but there are so many emotions swirling around inside of him that he needs an outlet. And when he finishes, the tears streaming from his eyes hidden by the falling rain, he walks. He walks and walks because what else is he supposed to do? If he goes back to his apartment all he’ll do is look at the peonies in that painting she likes, sit on the sofa where the cushions smell like her, scrape the burnt food he’d made for her into the trash where his heart lies. Everything there belongs to her because _he_ belongs to her. He can’t help it, he _loves_ her. 

He _still_ loves her. 

Eventually, he finds an empty stairwell where he can sit a while and buries his face in his hands and cries. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever even see her again, and he hates himself but he _wants_ to. He thinks maybe there’s something wrong with him. Why, after she’d kept her marriage from him, would he ever want anything to do with her again? But he can’t help it. He loves her more than anything in the world and that feeling doesn’t just go away. 

He leans over his knees and begins to retch. He imagines his heart is trying to free itself from the immense hurt inside. 

He wonders if she meant what she said - that she loved him back. How could she have? How could she have meant it and not told him she were married until now?

He laughs desperately at himself. When she’d disappeared those times, he wonders if she’d really just been loved up with her _husband_. He chokes on his own saliva as he thinks of it. 

It gets dark and cold and Scott has no intention of moving from his spot. He doesn’t think he could even if he tried. 

But then a homeless man wanders into the small stairwell to keep dry, dragging a cart of his belongings up the stairs to settle in on the stoop, uncaring of Scott’s company. 

Scott glances at him for a moment, his eyes bleary and looks away for a moment before whipping his head back to look at his cart. 

There, pushed up against the metal, is a battered up copy of _Moulin Rouge_.

He buries is face back into his hands and cries as much as he laughs. The old man must think he’s crazy, and he very well might be. 

“That book.” He says, turning and pointing at it in the man’s cart. “ _Moulin Rouge._ ” He says, “ I’ll pay you for it. He rummages in his violin case and pulls out what he’d earned playing. It’s all he has with him but it’s far more than the book would cost in a store. The notes are soggy as he holds them in his palm, showing them to the man. “S'il vous plaît.” He says desperately, his voice breaking. 

The man sucks on his teeth and takes the money, pocketing it and digging it from his cart as the rain pours outside the little overhang they’re sheltered in. 

He holds the book out for Scott but pulls it away just as he reaches for it. 

" _S'il vous plaît_.” Scott implores, his vision blurred by tears he doesn’t bother to try and stop. “ _S'il vous plaît.”_

The man looks at him and points to his violin case. 

Scott hangs his head. He can’t afford to buy another violin, not right now anyway. He pretends to weigh his options, pretends to be thinking logically, but there isn’t really a question in his mind. He lets the strap slip from his shoulder and offers it to the man who tosses the book into his lap. 

Scott clutches to to his chest and leans over again, crying. 

When he woke up that morning he’d felt like he had everything. Now he’s lost all of it. 

He starts shivering after a while so he grabs a plastic bag that’s caught between the wall and the railing and wraps the book in it, tucking it into his inner jacket pocket. He doesn’t even know why he’s bought it. He’ll never have the opportunity to give it to her. He’s done a lot of stupid things in his life. He’s deserted the _army_ for chrissakes, but he’s _never_ felt this fucking pathetic. 

He somehow manages to get himself home, a blubbering, soaking mess, and he strips his clothes off and slips the book safely and inexplicably under the covers of his bed, before climbing in the shower in an attempt to wash the sorrow from his body. 

He gets himself dressed for bed and just as he lays down, clutching his pillow to his chest like a little boy, crying himself to sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your feedback, everyone! Sorry the last chapter was so sad! Also sorry this one might not be much better :/ I promise a happy ending !

He sits in the plaza, unsure how else to spend his days. He doesn’t have a violin, doesn’t have the money to buy one and doesn’t know how to make money without one. He’s set to fly back to Canada in two weeks and he can’t decide whether he’s happy or if he just wants to run away again. 

He watches the people go past, watches the couples holding hands, holding hearts, holding children. It hurts him because he allowed himself to imagine a life like that with Tessa. It had been stupid all along, he realises it now, but he couldn’t help himself. She’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

He’d known she had some dark secret but as dumb as he feels about it now, marriage truly hadn’t crossed his mind.

He needs to see her one last time just to give her this book. He wants her to know how much he cares for her. He thinks that maybe he’ll see her walking by, running errands or something, maybe writing in the journal he’d given her. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t care that she’s married, and that he still loves her and if she still loves him, he dreams of running away with her. Maybe they can go back to Canada, maybe she can dance again. He thinks he could make her happy. 

But when he doesn’t see her for weeks, he gives up. He’s walking home the long way, past the Louvre when he sees her. And of course! He’d never thought to come here. He wonders if she’d been visiting Venus. 

She’s carrying a small bag and wearing her coat, but her hair blows wildly behind her in the frigid air. He hates to think how cold she must be. 

He tries his best to catch up with her, but she walks quite fast, probably because of the cold. He eventually catches up with her a block later in a neighbourhood of pretty townhouses. “Tess!” He calls to her from behind, waving. 

She turns around and she’s as beautiful as ever, cold as ever, too. 

He smiles apologetically as he sees her eyes grow wide. “Scott…” She says, “You can’t…” She shakes her head. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. “I just… was walking by the Louvre and I saw you and… and I miss you.” 

She looks dumbstruck. “Miss me?” 

“Yeah.” He says softly and then sees the way she’s shivering. “Jeez, kiddo, put this on, will you?” He pulls his hat off and fits it onto her head, hoping it’ll help a bit. 

She looks absolutely stunned now. 

“Tess, can we talk?” He asks. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“I want you.” He says, blurting it out because he needs to say it. “I want you married or not married or dancing or not dancing or singing or not singing or whatever the hell you want to be, I want you. So much, Tess.” 

“Scott.” She says softly and he detects pain and perhaps the slightest bit of desire in her expression. “I wish it were that simple.” 

He takes a step closer and Tessa looks up at him and sighs. 

“Tell me you don’t want me too.” He needs to hear to say it if she doesn’t want him because everything about her is telling him that she might. 

“I-“ Her voice catches in her throat and she takes a shaky breath. “Do you want to come in?” 

Scott furrows his brow and takes a step back, looking up at the townhouse. “You _live_ here?” He asks. He’d always figured she’d had means but he hadn’t quite thought she was _this_ wealthy. 

She doesn’t answer, just flushes and looks down like she’s self-conscious about living somewhere so nice, so Scott answers with a quick “Yes.”

He follows her inside where the house opens up into a beautiful foyer with carpet white as freshly fallen snow. Scott immediately kicks off his shoes, terrified to mark it. And then he thinks that maybe he should. Maybe he _should_ mark his presence in her home. Maybe he _wants_ to. But he leaves his shoes off because Tessa takes hers off as well and he wants to be respectful for _her_ sake. 

They hang their coats and Tessa puts a kettle on. 

Scott glances around at his surroundings; white marble and chrome and gold, the finest kitchenware he’s ever seen for a woman who told an onion to go to hell. 

He’s glad she has things, glad she has luxuries because it’s what she deserves. And then he sees a man’s shoes in the corner of the room and he feels like he might crumble into a million pieces. “Where is he?” He brings himself to say, and he sees the way Tessa tenses and looks away. She’s ashamed. He hadn’t meant to make her feel that way. 

“I’m sorry.” Scott says, “I didn’t mean-“ 

“No.” She interrupts. “It’s alright. He’s at work.” 

Scott nods, not needing - or wanting - to know anything more. 

He probably shouldn’t _hate_ the man, right? He’s really the one that’s the victim in all this, isn’t he? The unsuspecting husband whose wife is sleeping with another man who doesn’t have the decency to even feel guilty about it because he’s so fucking head over heels for her… And then he wonders why she’s cheating on him in the first place. He must not be good enough for her and if that’s the case then Scott really just can’t feel badly for him because if he doesn’t treat her properly she _shouldn’t_ be with him. And if she doesn’t _love_ him, or in fact, if she loves someone else, she should be with that person, shouldn’t she? He tells himself yes. 

“When are you leaving?” She asks. “Do you know?” 

He tries not to let the question hurt him, tries to tell himself she’s asking because she doesn’t _want_ him to go. 

“Two weeks.” He answers hoarsely. 

Tessa smiles painfully and Scott can tell how forced it is. At least that makes him feel slightly better. 

“That’s amazing.” She says, but lacking her usual enthusiasm. “Scott, I’m so happy for you.” He can tell that bit’s genuine. 

He shakes his head. “I could stay.” He says, and he’s never meant anything more in his life. “I would stay. Tell me to stay.”

She shuts her eyes and braces her hands on the counter as the kettle starts to whine. 

She shakes her head slightly and decides to tend to making the tea instead of acknowledging his plea. 

She’s wearing black today, and Scott thinks it’s fitting of the mood, but at the same time he admires the way it makes her skin look as white as the fresh-snow carpet, the way the neckline drops down so that he can see her collarbones. He likes the delicate shadows they cast on her chest, likes the way her freckles arrange themselves in random little constellations there. Her hair curls loosely around her shoulders and she moves with such grace as she navigates her kitchen that he simply can’t take his eyes off of her. 

When she approaches him with his cup of tea he can’t even bring himself to move to take it from her for a full ten seconds. They just stare at one another. And then, reaching out with shaky hands from where he’s sitting at her kitchen table, he takes her hips instead of the tea and feels her exhale, like he’s severed the ties holding her back from him. 

“Come here.” He whispers, and she closes her eyes like she’s trying to block him out. Her hands are shaking and he releases her hips and stills them, taking the teacup and saucer she’s holding and placing it on the table beside him before running his hands from her sides back down to her hips. 

“I don’t need a promise.” He says. “I don’t need a yes, I don’t need an - an eventually, not any kind of guarantee or anything like that. I just need a _maybe_.” He says, feeling shaky now, himself. “Just give me a maybe, Tess, and I’ll stay. Please, just… tell me to stay.” 

He hears her whimper softly and blink like she’s trying to hold back tears. She closes her eyes when she can’t keep them in any longer. “We can’t be together.” She tells him with her voice quivering, and Scott doesn’t know what to think. 

She opens her eyes reluctantly as if she’d thought she might have been able to will him away. When their eyes meet he smiles gently at her. “I’m still here.” He says. “Sorry.” His hands smooth over her waist, upward, and he catches her eye, seeking permission because he can tell she wants this as much as he does. When she doesn’t protest, his hands travel higher, fingers brushing the curve of her breasts, soft and warmer than he’d expected after being out in the cold. 

She closes her eyes again, more peacefully this time, and Scott smoothes his thumbs across her nipples, feeling the way they stiffen for him beneath the fabric. His breath hitches and he moves his hands away, watching as Tessa opens her eyes, whatever words she’d wanted to say to him dead on her lips. 

“We can’t be together.” She repeats. 

It brings tears to Scott’s eyes. He shakes his head. “I want you so much.” He chokes out. 

She reaches out and runs her hands across his cheeks - those are cold and he brings his own hands up and over them to warm her. He turns his head and kisses one of them. 

She lets out a shaking breath and he feels her shudder. “You can have me _now_.” She says softly. “Just… just _right_ now. Just once. But we can’t _be_ together…” 

Scott looks up at her and sees the pain and the desire and the vulnerability all mixed together on her beautiful face and of course he’s not going to say no. It thrills him to know that she still wants him. He sets his hands back on her waist and tugs her toward him. “Come here.” He repeats gruffly, his voice suddenly steeped in desire. 

But she resists momentarily. “I don’t want you to regret anything.” She says to him in that raspy way and he shakes his head. “You could kill me and I wouldn’t regret it.” He says, and he’s not trying to be dramatic but she’s pretty much done that anyway. If he’s going to feel like he’s dead anyway, at least he’ll have this to look back on. No matter how much it hurts afterward, he’ll know he’d had her, truly had all of her, mind, body and soul one last time for a few brief moments on a blustery winter day. 

She studies him for a moment as if she needs to make sure his words are genuine, as if there’s even a question they might not be, before she sinks into his lap, straddling his waist and knotting her hands in his hair, their lips finding each other as easily as they’d ever done. 

Everything is a blur, warm flesh and heat and breath, pressure and friction and then he’s carrying her into the bedroom, stumbling into walls as they go, too caught up in one another to make an efficient journey. Her legs are twined around him, her smooth skin brushing his in all the right places. He’s so lost in her that he forgets she’s married. He forgets that this isn’t their apartment and she isn’t really his and this isn’t just another Wednesday afternoon he gets to share with the woman he loves. 

And then he has her on the bed and he catalogues each any every one of her movements as he undresses her, watches the way she squirms at his touch, the way she arches toward him, the way she doesn’t try to hide any part of herself from him. He thinks maybe now he truly knows her.

And then she’s naked and he can’t even breathe because she’s so perfect. He takes careful stock of her breasts, perky little mounds with nipples as pink as her lips, her stomach, toned and opaline, mostly void of the freckles that fleck her chest. Then there’s her thighs, the way they curve up to meet her hips so flawlessly, and her centre, the most exquisite little flower. He touches her there and watches the way it makes her expression darken, her eyes closing, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting, her back arching. He feels her desire coating his fingers, her delicate petals soft and quivering under his touch. He wants to taste her but before he can, she’s pulling him down. Down so that he’s pressed against those lovely breasts. Down, so that his lips can slot back against hers where they feel so at home. Down so that she can take him in her hands and slip his painfully hard length inside of her. 

The moment they’re joined feels like nothing he’s ever felt before and he can’t say how loudly he moans because all he can hear is the sound of _her_ moaning. 

He thinks of her husband suddenly, just momentarily, and thrusts into her with everything he has, burying himself as deeply as he can inside of her. 

Her breath hitches and he feels her quiver at the sudden fullness, her eyes are shut and her head thrown back. She wraps her legs around him tightly and presses her heels into his ass, pushing him into her as if she wants him even deeper, as if it were even possible to be joined any more profoundly than they are right now. 

He grips her hair, buries his face against her neck and quivers madly. He can feel every hot velvet ridge inside of her closing around him, throbbing for him. He tries to move but she holds him still, her nails digging into his back as she rocks herself against him. He growls into her hair, a low rumbling sound he hadn’t even known he was capable of producing and she shudders, her legs shaking and a warm rush of wetness coating his length inside of her. 

He groans as she flutters around his cock, a shaky gasp bursting from her lungs. She loosens her grip on him and he finally allows himself to look at her and he just can’t believe she’s real. 

“Oh, Tess.” He drops his forehead against hers. He smoothes her hair back and she opens her eyes, darker than he’s ever seen and he rolls his hips, thrusting against her as she looks up at him as wrecked as he feels. 

He tries not to pay attention to the _sound_ of their coupling, the lewd wetness between them, because he knows it’ll push him over the edge far sooner than he wants. He wants to draw this out as long as possible. He takes advantage of his new freedom of movement and ducks his head down to suck on the perfect bud of her nipple, his thumb caressing the other, making her moan lewdly. 

Scott lets out a carnal growl as he sucks her deeper into his mouth and feels the way it makes her clench around his cock. He pulls his mouth back with a pop and crashes it back against her lips, as if they’re _his,_ and she fists her hand in his hair as he moves faster. She begins rolling her hips to meet his, each pushing the other desperately close in their own abandon. 

He pulls his lips from hers, his lungs burning as he feels the heat begin to boil over in his belly. “Tess.” He groans, his voice gone. “Tess, I’m-“ He tries to pull out of her but she locks her legs around his, opening her eyes and holding his face in her hands. “Stay.” She says, desperately, nodding and then looking down between them so she can see where they’re joined. And then she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and says in that gorgeous, wanton voice, “I want to feel it. I want all of you.” 

Scott lets out something between a groan and a sob and buries his face back in the crook of her neck, because she already _has_ all of him, _doesn’t she know that_? He inhales her scent as he pumps into her once, twice, her legs pushing him deeper, her nails digging into his back, marking him as hers, just as much as he wants to mark her. One more roll of his hips and he spills himself inside of her with a cry, feeling her nails burning against his skin, feeling her shaking against him, hearing her last few mewling moans as she comes with him, reveling in the stickiness between them, the way it feels to fill her, like he’s claiming her, like she _wants_ to be claimed. 

He grips her neck and kisses her breathlessly, each of them panting into the other’s mouth, completely spent and yet unable to let the moment go. 

He rests his full weight atop her and she strokes his back, her legs still locked tightly around him.

He doesn’t know if there’s a word to describe how he feels for her any longer. Love surely doesn’t cover it. She’s absolutely everything to him. Everything he’s ever known or wanted to know is in her eyes and her lips and carried on her sighs and in her words and thrumming in her veins. She’s everything. 

And then she says the words he knew were coming. The words that feel like a million knives in his heart. 

“You have to go.” 

“Tessa.” He says softly. 

She shakes her head and he pulls his head back to look at her, realising that she’s crying. “Tess.” He breathes, his hands coming up to hold her cheeks. But she grips his wrists and pushes them away. “I’m sorry.” She says. “I told you we can’t-“ 

“ _Why_ can’t we?” He asks. “Why not? Come back to Canada with me. I’ll make you so happy, Tess, I promise.” 

She swallows roughly and shakes her head once more. “You need to leave _now_ , Scott, he’ll be home soon.” 

He feels a flush of anger at this man who he’s never met. “I don’t care about him.” He says, gruffly. “And neither do you, you said it yourself.” 

She shakes her head but Scott continues. “You said you don’t love him, you said you love _me.”_ He feels pathetic, like a child, almost, not to mention completely spent, torn to shreds but he doesn’t know what else to do. This feels like his last chance. He has to at least try. Especially after what they’d just done to each other. Scott’s sure he’s never going to be the same. He’d never thought it was possible to feel so intricately connected to another person, to feel like your body was _crafted_ specifically for another. 

“Tell me you’ve ever felt like this before.” He says. “Tell me you’ve ever felt something like this… like _that_.” He gestures between them at their naked bodies. “Tell me you’ve ever even _imagined_ it was possible to feel like that with someone.” 

Her lip quivers and he kisses her there. “You love me.” He repeats. “You said it.” 

She shakes her head and he feels something in him break. He realises his cheeks are wet with tears. “Please, Tessa.” He begs. “I can’t…” He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.” 

She takes his face in her hands and takes a deep breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m staying with him.” She says firmly and Scott’s sure that _killing him_ isn’t an understatement. “I hope you can understand.” She says through her tears. “I know you’ll be an amazing violinist and if I ever make it back to Canada I’d love to come to a show.” 

Scott shakes his head. He can’t believe this is how it ends. 

“I _do_ love you.” She says, her voice breaking. “I wish I could explain it…” 

He shakes his head again and climbs off of her, reaching blindly for his clothes. “Don’t.” He says. He can’t bare it. Of course she’s staying with _him,_ because even if she does love him, he could never give her all these beautiful things. He could never buy her a flat in the centre of town or a fancy kitchen with a chrome refrigerator where she can store the produce before she curses at it. He can’t buy her a new coat or silk lingerie or fancy perfumes, leather shoes or a record player or any sort of real security. He has nothing to offer her. Of course she shouldn’t be with him. He understands that now. He can’t blame her for that. 

He wipes at his eyes before pulling his pants back on. Everything’s a blur, including Tessa who he sees reaching for him. He pulls away. “It’s ok.” He assures her. And then, for reasons he’s not quite sure of, perhaps it’s the Canadian in him, perhaps it’s because he feels like they’re mourning something, he says, “I’m sorry.” 

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her long and hard, until he can taste the salt of her tears and feel the burn of it in his lungs. When he pulls away he tries his best not to look at her because he doesn’t want to remember her crying, but he can’t help it. So he strokes the tears as gently as he can from her cheeks before placing another kiss on her lips, as soft as sweet as their first. “Shh.” He soothes. “It’s alright.” 

She wraps her hand around his arm and he tries not to picture her asking to come away with him. It hurts to much to think of what might have been. He gives her a teary smile instead, though it feels like everything in him is crumbling.

“I love you so much.” He whispers to her, his voice catching in his throat and his own tears on his cheeks.

She whimpers and turns her face to nuzzle his nose. 

They stay like that for an agonizing moment. One last moment together, before Scott pulls away. He’s not going to ruin things for her. He’s not going to be here when her husband returns. He hopes she’ll be happy. 

He slips from her room with one last look at her, flushed and teary, naked and claimed and so, so _beautiful._ He finds his way to the kitchen, where slips her book into her handbag along with his hat. He hopes she remembers to wear it, hopes it keeps her warm. And maybe selfishly hopes she’ll think of him when it does. 

Then he’s in the foyer with the fallen-snow carpet, pulling his shoes on and stumbling out into the cold, the door closing cruelly behind him.

* * *

“How is he?” She asks Gabriel. 

It’s been almost a week since Tessa had last spoken to Scott and in that time she’d been through every sort of emotion known to man. 

She was sure he hated her and she didn’t blame him at all. She’d been awful, selfish and vile. But she hadn’t lied to him about loving him. She’d never loved anyone before Scott, but now that she’d had him she knew that love was the best and the worst feeling all at once. When she’d been with him she’d felt bubbly, bright and _happy_ for the first time in ages, and when she was apart from him she’d feel like she was dying. It’s how she’s felt for the past few weeks. The time they were together was something she’s sure she’ll never feel again. She laments the loss and celebrates having the experience at all as she’s sure so few people ever have such a connection. 

And the book he’d left her, he hadn’t forgotten after all that time. She has it hidden under her bed with his hat like some little schoolgirl with a crush so her husband won’t find them. She couldn’t bare to read it yet. She wants to save it until she’s safe so that she can feel him there with her and know that they’re both on their way to something better. A new start, even if it can’t be together. 

_Only a few more days._ She tells herself. And then she won’t have to hide any longer.

She’d arranged to meet Gabriel at a café far from the pub where they play together. She hadn’t exactly wanted to meet him in person with her current situation being what it is, but she figures in a couple of days it won’t matter anyway. This will all be behind her. 

She hadn’t been singing since everything happened with Scott. She couldn’t bring herself to do it if she tried. There was nothing to sing about now. 

She can’t bear not knowing if he’s ok before he leaves and she thinks that perhaps he still comes to the pub. She hopes he does, hopes Gabriel has seen him. 

“He looks a little rough around the edges, Tess, I’m not going to lie.” Gabriel tells her in French,and Tessa feels her heart sink. “Have you spoken to him?” She asks. 

“Uh yeah, yeah, briefly.” He says “I asked him why he hasn’t been bugging me about playing anymore.” 

Tessa waits. 

“Said he sold his violin for a book or something.” Gabriel shakes his head pitifully. “Don’t know how the hell it happened, that’s all I got out of him.” He shrugs. 

Tessa’s eyes widen and she feels her heart fluttering awfully in her chest. She finds it difficult to breathe suddenly and she thinks she might faint. She ducks her head trying to catch her breath. How had he managed to do that? She wonders, and why his _violin_ of all things. As if she hadn’t taken enough from him already. She feels utterly awful and heartsick. 

“Hey, what’s with the hat, anyway?” Gabriel asks. “You trying to hide from someone?” He tries to peek under the large, black brimmed hat she’s wearing and Tessa ducks lower, but Gabriel sees her and his eyes go wide. 

“Jesus, Tessa, your eye.” 

Tessa feels herself grow hot, her stomach flipping. “It’s nothing.” She says. “I… hurt myself trying to open the cupboard.” 

“Oh come on, don’t lie to me.” He refutes.

“It’s not important.” Tessa says. “Listen, Gabriel, I need you to do me a favour.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Tessa and Gabriel meet again, only two days later, on a street corner. 

“You _live_ here?” Gabriel asks, surveying his surroundings. It’s a very wealthy neighbourhood. Tessa shrugs. She’s holding a black violin case, inside it, the finest violin she could buy. “You’ll make sure to get it to him?” She asks. 

“I will.” Gabriel says. “That’s my part of the deal. Now you hold up your part, yeah? It’s been driving me crazy trying to figure it out.” 

Tessa sighs. She supposes it doesn’t matter anymore as it’ll likely be the last time she sees Gabriel. She doesn’t plan on going back to the pub. She doesn’t plan on singing anymore. Not for a while anyway. She doesn’t even plan on being in Paris come tomorrow. 

“Gabriel, I don’t _go_ anywhere.” She tells him. 

“What do you mean?” He asks. “You disappear for weeks without any notice.” 

“I don’t go anywhere.” She repeats. “I stay home, stay inside because… well…” She gestures shamefully toward her eye and Gabriel nods solemnly, a look of painful realisation on his face. “Who is it then?” He asks. “Husband? Boyfriend? I can help you.” 

Tessa shakes her head appreciatively. “Respectfully, you don’t know him, Gabriel, and I can handle myself.” 

“You can handle yourself but obviously not him.” Gabriel says, upset. 

Tessa flushes. “Please, don’t…” She doesn’t want this to be bigger than it needs to be. She _does_ have it handled. She does now, anyway. It had taken her a time but she’s finally figured it out, finally worked up the courage to do something about it. 

“So you disappear until… until you’re healed?” He clarifies. 

Tessa nods. “I’m a quick healer.” She says, offering him a sad smile to go with her dark observation. 

“Jesus.” Gabriel sighs. “Tessa, please let me help.” 

“You can help with _this_.” She says, tapping the violin case. “Please Gabriel.” 

“We can get you somewhere safe.” He tells her. “That’s no way to live.” 

Tessa shakes her head. “I’ll be safe by tomorrow. I promise.” 

Gabriel cocks his head but she’s already said too much. “Just promise me you’ll do this. Please.”

He stares at her for a moment but nods finally. “Alright.” He says softly. “Alright.” 

They part ways and Tessa walks back to her flat swiftly. 

* * *

It’s Friday night and she’s normally getting ready to go to the pub now, though she wouldn’t be going this week anyway because of the bruises. She’d messed up his dinner again, forgotten to put the laundry away, been too caught up in writing or whatever it was that had annoyed him this week. He doesn’t need much of a reason to hurt her these days and she’s stopped keeping track of the innumerable things that set him off long ago. 

Tessa tries not to think on it too much and prays that Scott will be at the pub later so Gabriel can give him the violin before he leaves for Canada. She just wants him to have it. She just wants to make everything better. She knows that’s impossible but if she can help somehow, she wants to. 

It had been the hardest thing in the world telling Scott that she wouldn’t go with him, but with everything going on she just couldn’t. The only way to be rid of her husband is to involve the police and she knows they’re going to have quite a lot of questions for her. With Scott’s return to Canada finally eminent, she couldn’t risk him being involved in the situation in any form. 

Tessa’s husband works quite late on Friday nights, which is why she’s normally able to go out to the pub, and she’s at least glad she has this time to be on her own. It’s been suffocating lately with no reprieve from him, nothing to look forward to, nobody to make her feel things like Scott had. She hadn’t even known feelings like that had existed until she was with him and now she can’t figure out how to live without them. 

She wishes more than anything that Scott were here right now. She wishes she could burrow into his warmth, breathe in his scent and listen to his strong, steady voice tell her all those pretty things. 

And while her insides ache for the man she loves and the half-life she got to live with him, the life she’d always knew was too good to be true, her outsides ache as well. She works frantically to pack a suitcase, to make sure she has everything she needs before it happens, and it hurts to move as quickly as she does, the bruises still quite painful. She lets herself weep quietly, the tears flowing freely and unrestrained as she packs, and, though she hates crying and the way it makes he feel even weaker than she had before, she can’t bring herself to stop. There are so many goodbyes to be said. To Scott, to her life in Paris, to her former self, to her dignity, perhaps. 

She tries to picture Scott in the pub, tries to _will_ it. She knows he’ll be an amazing violinist one day - he already is. She just wishes she could be there to see it happen. But she’s happy for him, happy that he’s going back to Canada, where he’d wanted to be all along. He’ll get to see his family and feel at home and find someone there who isn’t married and isn’t complicated and doesn’t disappear, who he’ll say all those lovely things to and who’ll say them all back without feeling like she’s the worst person in the world because she’ll have nothing to hide. 

Tessa sighs as she reaches under the bed and pulls forth his hat. She hugs it to her chest and presses her face into it. It smells like him. She allows herself a moment to be scared. Just one single moment, knelt on the floor, the room in disarray around her. And then she remembers how strong Scott was, how sometimes running is the bravest thing a person can do, and she collects herself and sets the hat lovingly at the very top of her suitcase. She’ll wear it and feel him with her. 

She pulls the book out next, brushes her hand across the cover. _Moulin Rouge._

She hugs that to her chest as well. The things he’d done to get it to her. It breaks her heart and sends it fluttering into a million pieces. She loves him. She wishes it hadn’t taken her so long to say it, to admit it to herself, but it had been hard. She’d thought she knew what love was when she married her husband, but when they’d made it to Paris he’d turned cruel and abusive and it had been difficult to believe anything could be better. But Scott had wormed his way into her life and there had been something about him that she’d trusted. He’d shown her how much more there could be, and God, she _wants_ it, but she cares so much about him that she’d never ruin his only shot at getting back to Canada. 

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to return to Canada herself. Eventually, she thinks. Her father will surely help, though she wishes it didn’t have to come to that. She feels ashamed at what she’s gotten caught up in. She’d thought he’d be good, her husband. He had been at first. He’d given her everything, but as soon as they’d gotten to France he’d started hurting her. 

She scoffs at herself, at how blind she’d been. 

* * *

It’s later than usual when he makes it to the pub. He’s looking mostly to drink away his sorrows tonight, sure that Tessa won’t be in. 

He drags himself over to the bar and orders what he plans on being his first of many drinks, before assuming his usual spot at the table he’d once shared with Tessa. 

He can’t really think about anything lately, there just seems to be an awful lot of white noise buffeting his senses from every angle. Without her, everything feels numbed. 

It’s why it takes him a good ten seconds to realise that Gabriel is talking to him. 

“Hey mate.” He’s speaking in French and Scott tries to keep up. 

“I have this for you.” He says. “Don’t think I’m supposed to tell you who it’s from, but I think you can probably guess.” He lays the case on the table in front of Scott and finds the strength to unzip it. 

He does so slowly, not really realising anything that’s going on around him, not really even processing anything Gabriel’s saying.

But when he opens the case and his hands run across the smooth wood grain it’s like he can _feel_ her there with him. Like he can feel that she’s been here. She’d touched it in that exact spot. It’s almost like the warmth of her skin is still there, trapped between the wood and the lacquer. 

It’s the most beautiful violin he’s ever seen. It looks to be made of spruce and maple, beautifully crafted together, perfectly symmetrical with the most intricate scroll he’s ever seen. The craftsmanship is incredible and he’s sure it must’ve cost a small fortune. 

He handles it gently, turning it in his hands, testing it’s weight, unable to believe it’s real. And then he sees it - carved into the grain and smoothed flush with the rest of the wood just as one would place a name on a boat, _Psyche._ He nearly sobs right there on the spot. All he can hear is her voice, all he can feel is her standing there next to him, her shoulder touching his as she tells him he’s _mushy._ All he can see is the green of her eyes as he tells her that it’s not about one saving the other, but love overcoming, and the pink of her cheeks when he freely admits that he _is_ mushy. That he is for _her._

She’s his Psyche because surely he’s Cupid, the way he fawns over her and it makes him laugh for a moment before he finds himself blinking back tears. 

He looks up at Gabriel. “Is she ok?” He asks, pleading for him to answer affirmatively.

But the look on Gabriel’s face makes Scott’s heart sink. 

“I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you…” He says, “And I don’t know if she’d appreciate me telling you this-“ 

“Tell me.” Scott demands, his voice breaking.

Gabriel swallows hard and scratches the back of her neck. “I’m worried for her.” He admits. “She um… she told me where she disappears to when she’s gone… or rather why she disappears.” 

Scott relaxes slightly, hangs his head. “I know she’s married.” He says. “I know. There’s nothing going on between us.” He tells a white lie, but it’s almost the truth. There _is_ nothing going on. Not anymore.

But Gabriel shakes his head. “No, more than that.” He says, and he points to his eye. “He hits her. She stays home ‘till she’s healed but I saw her eye and she - I mean he gets her pretty good.” 

Scott stands up so fast his chair topples over and several people stop and stare as he fumbles with his violin case, zipping it up and throwing it over his shoulder. 

“Hey man, I can-“ Gabriel starts to say, but Scott’s already running out of the bar, nearly bowling over a small group of people smoking just outside. He takes off sprinting down the street and they cheer and jeer at him in their drunkenness, but he hardly hears a thing. 

He’s never felt like he had to rescue Tessa. She’d always been the strong one, brave, stoic, stalwart in her beliefs. It terrifies him to think of it now because he knows how good she is at hiding things. It kills him inside to know that she’d been hiding that from him, that all those times she’d gone away she’d been hurt. He feels a bout of rage come over him and he thinks he might truly murder the man who hurts her. The man who calls himself her husband. 

But as he approaches her block, he hears the sound of sirens. He lets a strangled cry burst from his lungs as they heave with the effort of his running and as he turns the corner he sees the police outside of her townhouse, taping the sidewalk off. 

Undeterred and feeling absolutely desperate, Scott runs for the door, uncaring of the consequences. If she’s in there - if she’s hurt or worse, he _needs_ to see her. He needs her to know that he’s still here. That she’s not alone. That he’s not going to let anyone or anything hurt her ever again. 

But he’s seized around the waist and then the chest and brought crashing to the ground by three policemen who’d thrown themselves on top of him. 

He struggles and shouts nonsense, tries to fight his way out of their grasp, but they subdue him, one of them kicking him in the chest for good measure while another handcuffs him. 

He’s thrown in the back of a police car, locked there, forced to wait in cold, dark silence, his forehead pressed to the glass and his new violin thrown carelessly in the front seat. 

He wonders how many nights Tessa’d spent the same way, alone, hurting, with nobody to talk to. 

He watches through a haze of blue and red light for what feels like hours with tears streaming down his face, but he doesn’t see her. 

But then there’s movement and Scott cranes his neck as the townhouse door swings open and the police escort a man out in handcuffs. 

Scott screams and struggles against his own cuffs, kicking at the door because he just _knows_ that’s _him_. That’s the man who hurther, his Psyche, the woman with the strawberry lips, La dame qui disparaît, his _Tessa._

He sobs and shouts once more, kicking as hard as he can at the door, the very worst case scenarios running through his mind. And how could they not be? He knows what that man - that _serpent_ does to her now and there he is, completely unharmed, safe in the back of a police car while Tessa’s nowhere to be found. 

“Where is she?” He shouts immediately at the officer who climbs in the front seat. He repeats himself in French, his mouth thick and frothy like a rabid dog. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but her. “Where is she?” 

The officer waves him off, tells him in French that he needs to wait until they get to the station. It doesn’t stop Scott from shouting at the man the whole way there, but he doesn’t get any answers. 

Resigned to thinking the worst, he lets the man roughly escort him into a small dark room hosting only a wooden table and three black plastic chairs. 

He’s sat in one of them and left there again for an indeterminate amount of time. He presses his forehead to the cool wooden surface of the table and sobs. 

* * *

“Scott Moir?” He hears someone speaking to him and he lifts his head. “You’re Scott Moir, correct?” The man’s speaking in English, without a French accent. 

“Yes.” He chokes out. His throat feels like it’s bleeding from all the screaming he’d been doing. “Please tell me where Tessa is.” He says hoarsely. 

“She’s not your concern right now.” The man says. “I’d say you have a lot more pressing issues on your plate at the moment.” He drops a small file folder on the table. “Hope you’re a quick packer.” He says. “You’re headed back to Canada. _Now_ , son. And you’re going to have a bit of explaining to do when you get there."


	9. Chapter 9

He can’t even count how many times he’s asked where she is now. He’s sure she must be dead. It seems nobody will give him a straight answer. He hears the officers that escort him to the airport whisper things about extradition, desertion, something about drugs? He’s terribly confused and he feels like he’s living in some strange nightmare. He’s going back to Canada. It’s what he’s wanted for so long, what he’s been unable to do for so long, and he’s finally getting his chance. And yet now he wants nothing more than to stay in Paris. Or rather, to be with Tessa, wherever she is. 

He cries on the plane, he can’t help it. Everything had happened so quickly. He has some clothes with him in his suitcase, a book or two and the painting with the peonies that Tessa likes along with her short poem, and of course the violin, resting safely beside him now. It’s his only comfort. 

He hears the officers snickering at his sniffles and he tries his best to pull himself together but honestly he doesn’t feel like it’s even worth it. He doesn’t care what happens to him at this point. 

* * *

The flight feels like it takes ages. Scott’s normally able to sleep on planes, but he’s too filled with anxiety for it today. Every time he closes his eyes he sees horrible images of Tessa hurt, bruised, bleeding, crying. He shakes like he has a fever and finds that he does indeed break into a cold sweat. 

He’s terribly uncomfortable when they remove him from the plane and escort him into a military hangar. He thinks he’s at the base just outside of Toronto. He’d flown out from this very base on his way to France. It’s his first time on Canadian soil in years and yet all he feels is sorrow and hatred and regret, and a longing that sends harrowing pangs all throughout his body. 

He’s brought to another small room and the officers drop his suitcase and violin roughly to the floor. He yells at them, can’t stand seeing the violin treated that way. It makes him think of how her husband treated her. 

They leave him alone and he rests his head on the table as he had before. It’s hard to believe he’s in just about the exact same situation, the very same environment, just a whole ocean apart. 

“Head up.” He hears a cold voice and he raises his head. The man’s dressed in a high-ranking general’s uniform. Scott squints to see his name tag but it’s too dark and his eyes are far too bleary. 

“A sorry excuse for a Canadian you are.” The man says. “But here we are.” He sits down across from Scott and folds his hands on the table. “You’re going to cooperate with me and we’re going to make this quick, understand?” 

Scott nods, unsure why he’s here. He’s fairly certain this is not how these things normally go… unless they’ve decided to send him to trial. 

“How did you know Michael Banks?” He says. His face is chiseled and his eyes are steely blue. Scott can see his closely cropped grey hair under his hat and his face is clean shaven. A military man through and through. It makes Scott shudder to think of his time under such leadership. 

“I’ve never head of him.” He answers, somewhat distracted. _Michael Banks? Should he know who that is?_

“You’ll speak to a ranking officer with respect, do you understand? You might’ve thought it admissible to abandon your own men, might have thought it admissible to disrespect the country that made you who you are, but you will speak to me with respect.” 

Scott nods. “Yes, sir.” He says. He finds it eerily easy to resume that submissive behaviour, and certainly not worth the fight to avoid it. 

“Good.” The man says, crossing his arms. “Now tell me how you came to know Michael Banks.” 

He shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of him, sir.” Scott answers truthfully.” 

The man scoffs. “That so?” He raises his brow. “You know, you were about to get a free ticket back to this country, free to be a civilian to…” he gestures toward the violin case, “play your frivolous music, read your books, do whatever it is you want to do, enjoy the freedoms won for you by the very men who you abandoned. But you don’t even have the decency to be honest with me about this, do you?” He shakes his head. “That’s unfortunate for you, seeing as he’s the one who approved your case, convinced us to bring you back.” 

Scott shakes his head, trying his hardest to think on the name. Had he just blocked it out? He truly can’t recall knowing anyone by that name. 

“Sir, I wish I could help you, I really do, but I’ve never heard that name before in my life.” 

“No?” He asks, raising his brow and clearing his throat. “You’ve heard of his wife, though, you’ve been asking where she the entire time you’ve been in custody, apparently.”

Scott cocks his head. “Tessa?” He asks, and then repeats with greater conviction, “Tessa? Tessa Virtue? Is she alright?” He reaches for the man’s arm, now resting on the table but he withdraws quickly. “Please tell me she’s alright.” He begs. 

“I-“ The man’s clearly taken off guard by Scott’s reaction. “That’s her husband? Michael Banks?” Scott asks, and then he shakes his head and stands up so fast that his chair topples over backward, causing the general to stand as well. 

Scott’s eyes dart down to the man’s name tag and it’s still quite dark, but now that his eyes have adjusted, Scott can read the tag clearly - _Virtue_. His eyes go wide and the man’s face becomes steely. “What do you know about her?” The man asks, his voice suddenly taking a different tone. Scott thinks it might be worry. 

He shakes his head, unsure how much he should share, figuring the man must be related to her. “I - I - She’s a good friend. Was… a good friend, I don’t know where she is…” His voice breaks and he feels tears well up in his eyes. “I just… please, tell me what’s going on.” 

The man just stares, doesn’t answer. 

“He hurts her - you know - her… _husband_.” He spits the word out like it’s rotten and watches general Virtue wince.

“I just found out.” Scott continues, shaking his head rapidly. “And I went - I ran to her house because I - I just wanted to take her away I guess… I don’t know, but I needed to get her out of there.” 

There’s a knock on the door and a younger looking man pokes his head in. “Sir, there’s a phone call for you.” 

“Not now.” The general snaps, clearly stressed. 

“It’s - It’s her.” The younger man says, and the officer whips around, his eyes going wide before quickly storming from the room, leaving Scott there with nothing but his own worries to fill the dark spaces. 

_Her._ Scott thinks. It must be Tessa. His heart swells in his chest. She’s ok… or alive, anyway. She’s talking, which is a good sign. She’s out there somewhere. 

He’s so confused and all he can do is wait. 

When general Virtue rejoins Scott, his face is far more relaxed, but Scott can still see the creases of his worry lines still on his forehead. He does look a bit like Tessa, Scott supposes, in a much colder, more severe way. 

“Have a seat.” He tells Scott. His voice is gentler now. Scott obeys. 

The general pulls out a tape recorder and sets in on the table. 

“Michael Banks…” He sighs deeply and looks down at his hands. “My… son in law.” He says the words with the same disdain as Scott had said _husband._ “Is - _was”_ General Virtue quickly amends the tense. “an armed forces general.” He clears his throat. “It was discovered… by my daughter… that he was involved in a large drug trafficking scheme in which several thousand pounds of amphetamines were smuggled from bases in Europe to Canada on armed forces vessels by Banks and a few lesser officers under his employ.” 

Scott stutters, unsure what to say. Unsure how to even from words at the moment. 

General Virtue reaches out and presses a button on the tape recorder and the moment the first sound byte reaches Scott’s ears he knows it’s Tessa. Her sweet voice like a salve, smoothing over the wounds the past twenty-four hours had inflicted upon him. 

“I’m sorry daddy.” She’s saying, and at once Scott feels like his heart can beat again. He lets out a strangled sob and feels tears of relief on his cheeks. He’s just so glad she’s okay. 

“I wanted to tell you sooner but I needed to be sure and it took me a while to be able to work out a plan with the police.” 

“Honey… “ General Virtue’s voice comes over the recording and it’s such a different tone that it takes Scott a moment to realise it really is the man sitting in front of him. 

“Honey, no, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I had no idea. I never should have let him take you over there - I -“ 

“I’m ok.” She says, firmly. “I’m fine. I just needed a plan, and I needed to make sure he wouldn’t be able to escape.” She says. 

“I don’t know what to say.” The general sounds like he might be crying. “I’m so proud of you, honey. And I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I’m going to get you out of there, do you understand? We’re sending someone from the embassy. You’re going to be alright, baby.” 

“The police said they have Scott.” Tessa says, changing the subject. “Scott Moir. Have you heard anything?” 

Scott’s heart pounds in his chest. The way she says his name is enough to make his whole body lurch forward, closer to her voice. 

The general clears his throat. “He’s in custody.” He says, solemnly. 

“He had nothing to do with this.” Tessa says desperately. “I have no idea why he was there. He wasn’t supposed to be there, daddy. He didn’t even know Michael. I was the one who submitted the paperwork for his case. I forged Michael’s signature. I know I shouldn’t have but…” Scott hears her voice break. “Will they still take him?” 

“He’s here, Tessie.” The general sighs. 

“Wh- In Canada?” Tessa asks. 

“Yeah.” The general responds. “Got in about an hour ago. We’re questioning him about his involvement… we thought since he was there and Mike was the one to approve his case that maybe he was working with him somehow.” 

“No.” Tessa says breathily. “No, he had no idea. He…” She sniffles. “He was only there because of me, he had nothing to do with Michael, I promise… I…” She sniffles. “Daddy, I messed up and I married someone awful and I know it was wrong but Scott was so nice to me and-“ Her voice breaks and Scott squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He loves her so much. 

“I know it was wrong.” Tessa repeats. “But I love him.” 

“Oh, Tess.” The general sighs. 

“Will you promise me he’ll be ok?” She asks, her voice a wreck, and Scott can hardly take it. 

“Tessa, sweetheart, my main concern right now is you.” The general says.

“I’m fine.” She repeats, “Daddy, promise me he’ll be ok, _please_.” 

The general sighs and there’s a moment of silence before he says, “Tessa, we’ll make sure.”

She sniffles. “Does he have a violin with him?” 

“He does.” Her father confirms, and Scott hears her breathe a sigh of relief and he thinks it must be the sweetest thing in the world. 

“Good.” She says. “I’m sure… I’m sure he hates me after all this… I just… will you tell him I love him anyway? And that I’m so, so sorry he got caught up in this. I never meant for that to be the case.” 

“I’ll tell him, baby.” The general says softly. “And I’ll see you soon, ok?” 

“I can’t.” She sobs. 

“What do you mean, honey? We’re bringing you back, you’re safe, it’s going to be okay.” 

“I can’t come back, daddy. Just… not yet. I need some… some time to myself, I think.” 

“You’re staying there?” The general asks in disbelief. 

“No.” Tessa says tearfully. “I’m going… _somewhere_ ” She laughs through her tears and Scott can’t help the sad smile he feels pulling at his lips, _la dame qui disparaît_. Only she’s not disappearing, she’s going _somewhere._

“I promise I’ll be safe, I just need to do this for myself. I need some time, I’m sorry, daddy. I love you.” She says. 

“Tessa, I -“ The general begins, but the line goes dead. 

As soon as her voice cuts out from the recording Scott misses it. When is he going to hear her again?

Scott truly doesn’t understand how things could have gotten so messed up. He’d thought he’d known her, then he thought he’d known her again, and then he thought, finally, terribly, that he’d known her last horrible secret, but she’d been keeping so much more from absolutely _everyone._ He wonders how long she’d been working with the police. He wonders how the hell she got to be so fucking brave. He wonders why she would _ever_ think he hates her. He wonders where she’s going. 

“So that’s the story.” The general says, looking up at Scott. “It’ll be all over the news come tomorrow.” He sighs. “She called from the police station in Paris but I have no idea where she’s off to.”

Scott’s not sure what to say, but the general reaches out and takes his hand. “I apologise for the way I spoke to you earlier.” He says, looking Scott directly in the eyes. “You’re a good man. And you were good to my little girl. She cares about you. You took care of her and we’re going to take of you. You have my word.” 

* * *

* * *

* * *

Tessa finds herself on a plane bound for Italy, and just in time because she really doesn’t want to be in Paris when the story breaks. 

She’s so relieved that Scott’s alright, that her father will make sure he’s safe, that he has a violin. And she’s also relieved to finally be _free._ It feels like the first day of the rest of her life, and though her heart aches that Scott couldn’t share it with her, she knows he’s where he wanted to be all along, and that’s going to have to be enough for her. She rummages through her carry-on and pulls out his hat, settling it firmly on her head, the way he used to do. She smiles when she thinks of it, always so concerned about her getting cold. He was nothing like Michael. 

She pulls the book from her bag next and sets it in her lap, running her fingers over the cover lovingly, as if he might be able to feel her stroking them across his back or through his hair. She sighs softly as she thinks of the times they spent together where they’d do things like that for what seemed like hours, just touch one another gently, _love_ one another fully. Or - no, not quite fully, she thinks. How could he have loved her fully when he hadn’t _known_ her fully? He hadn’t known what her husband had been doing, hadn’t known the secrets she’d kept hidden. She hopes he doesn’t take it personally that she didn’t confide in him, she just didn’t want anything jeopardising his return. She sighs and shakes her head, wondering what had brought him back to her apartment. Perhaps he’d come to thank her for the violin. She should have taken that into account, but she tries not to berate herself too much over it. It had worked out in the end. She smiles thinking about Scott reuniting with his family. She remembers how fondly he’d spoken about them. 

She cracks open the front cover of the book and loses her breath at once, her smile fading from her face immediately.

There, just inside the front cover, scrawled in his messy handwriting in blue ballpoint ink, are the words, 

_I will love you until my dying day._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3:)

Toronto

1956

* * *

Scott plays each show with the same passion he had playing on the streets of Paris. He’s first chair in the Toronto Orchestra, but he never forgets where he once was, never forgets the people who supported him along the way, never forgets Tessa. It’s impossible to forget her, in fact, he’s playing with the very same violin she’d given him five years ago. It’s undergone a few repairs, but Scott’s made sure his Psyche is kept good as new. 

He feels guilty about it but he’s tried to forget her. It’s painful knowing that there’s someone out there so perfectly attuned to you, someone you love more than anything in the world, a connection that comes around once in a lifetime, but a person that you simply cannot be with for one reason or another. He’d tried searching for her, made some cold calls to Paris. He’d actually spoken to Gabriel, but she hadn’t told a single soul where she was going, not even her family.

And so he lives his life knowing that there could be more, but trying to make the most of what he has anyway. There’s always music to turn to when things get hard, and he’s composed about a thousand songs about her, about their time together, about Paris. And, more recently, he’s been lending himself to a number of performance venues as part of the orchestra pit as a way to mix things up. He focuses on his career mostly. There hasn’t been anyone since Tessa and he doesn’t want there to be. There _isn’t_ anyone but Tessa. Not for him. 

It hadn’t been his idea tp branch out professionally, however. His agent had been bugging him about the offers for some time now, but Scott had truthfully found it rather disheartening to have to watch anyone on a stage that isn’t _her._ All he can think about is the woman in the deep blue, with the piercing green eyes and the haunting voice that he sometimes (if he’s lucky) still hears in his dreams.

But he doesn’t want to limit himself, so he’s agreed to be more open. The first show he played was _Carmen_ , at the opera. Then he played a few lesser known shows, some for the Toronto Actors Guild, he’d played _The Nutcracker_ at the ballet once, and _all_ he’d thought of was Tessa - how beautiful she’d look up there under the lights, dancing, how much she’d love it. That had been the only show he’d played for the ballet - he’d turned down every one since. It had just been too hard. 

He finds himself tense every time his agent comes to him with a different show, but he does want to lend his hands when he can and he does enjoy the variety of music it allows him to play. 

* * *

“So, I have another offer coming up…” His agent starts, cautiously. 

Scott has his feet up on his desk, his violin under his chin. “Mh?” He asks, trying not to sound completely unenthused. 

“I know you don’t like to play for the ballet…” His agent says, and Scott drops his feet to the floor and sits up, shaking his head. “No.” He says. He can’t do it. 

“I know.” His agent nods. “It’s just that it’s a new show, the music - I’ve looked it over, it would be a great opportunity for something a little different. I think it would be good. You might even have fun.” He says, smiling weakly at Scott and offering him the sheet music. 

Scott rolls his eyes and snatches the papers. “I have _fun._ ” He grumbles. 

He glances down at the papers and loses his breath completely. _Moulin Rouge._

He strokes his finger under the title gently and swears he can _feel_ her there. God, it brings back the best and the worst times of his life. 

His agent clears his throat and Scott looks up at him as if he’s coming out of a daze. He rather is. 

“Um… I’ll think about it.” Scott tells him. “Let me look it over.” 

* * *

He takes the sheet music home with him that night, tucks it snugly into his violin case with Psyche and feels like instead of the handle of his case, it’s _her_ hand he’s holding all the way back to his flat. 

As soon as he arrives home, he shuts the door and presses his forehead to the cool wood. It forces him to flash back to the police station in Pairs. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and sees her face, sees her laughing at the word trout. He’d actually written a song about that day, called it Trout. He wishes he could tell her, he thinks she’d laugh. Then he finds _himself_ laughing, but when he opens his eyes they’re filled with tears. 

He wants to do the show for her sake, because he knows she’d tell him he absolutely _has_ to, and it makes him smile tearily because he wishes that she were here to tell him herself. But he doesn’t think he’d be able to make it through the show without having a breakdown. He’s never even read the book, he’s never seen the film they made based on it. He’s never felt brave enough. 

He sets his violin case on the kitchen table and zips it open, taking the music out and leafing through the various songs until - 

He drops the papers at once and they scatter across the floor. He’s sure he’s seeing things. He must be going insane. He finds himself shaking and then scrambling to find that _one_ sheet. He’s on his knees when he grabs it off the floor and he squints his eyes, making sure he’s not just seeing things. 

_Come What May_

_Original Composition_

_Written By: Tessa Virtue_

He can’t bring himself to read the lyrics yet, he can’t see anything through the tears that have suddenly burst forth from his eyes, the heartbreaking sobs that wrack his body. He’s so happy that she’s still writing, that she’s written _this._ He can hardly breathe, huddled there on the floor. He clutches the sheet of paper to his chest. 

When he does work up the courage and the capacity to read the lyrics, he feels like his heart - what’s left of it, anyway, is going to beat out of his chest. 

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you_

_Until my dying day_

The last two lines - they’re the words he wrote to her, and they hold true. They’ve always been true. He’s always loved her and he always will. 

He plays the song over and over, feels her in the notes, in the lyrics. He can almost hear her singing it in that beautiful voice of hers.

He thinks (hopes desperately) that maybe she was thinking of him when she wrote it, thinking of their story. She must’ve been, right? She’d used his words. 

He decides he needs to play it. No matter how painful it is, he wants to play her music. 

When he calls his agent to confirm he’ll accept the offer, he can hear the surprise in his voice. 

“But Pat?” He tells him. “I’ll practice on my own.” 

It’s his privilege to practice where and how he pleases, being the best violinist in Toronto, and nobody questions his ability to be able to preform come opening night. 

He doesn’t mean to come across as haughty or stuck up, he just simply doesn’t want to embarrass himself with how emotional he gets playing the song she wrote. 

* * *

He takes the time in the weeks leading up to the performance to read the book finally. He laughs when he finds it with such ease in the library and thinks of the trouble he’d gone through to find it years ago in Paris. 

And then he watches the film, which is a bit different.

He finds the story emotional - a woman who falls in love with a lowly writer but who is promised to a horrible duke. 

He can’t help but draw the parallels and he knows she must have as well. 

_Her_ horrible duke has been locked up for the past few years, and will be for the rest of his life, thankfully. He’s knows that General Virtue will make sure of that. 

And the story, of course, ends tragically, but Scott’s glad that _his_ Satine hasn’t died. She’s still out there somewhere, still writing beautifully. He hopes that maybe she’s dancing. Maybe she’s found someone to love, who loves her as fully as she deserves to be. More than anything he hopes she’s free. And happy. He hopes she’s incredibly happy. 

* * *

Come opening night, he’s actually _nervous_. It’s something he hasn’t felt in years - first night jitters. He just wants so badly to do her song justice. He wants her - wherever she might be, to be able to _feel_ him playing it in the moment. He knows the idea is ridiculous but he thinks that he can feel her sometimes. 

He takes his place in the pit and listens to the chatter of the audience behind him. Some talk of the new principal dancer. He smiles as he remembers Tessa talking about the position. 

And then the curtains open and they play the introduction, set the stage for Christian. Scott can’t help but feel some sort of camaraderie with the man who plays him. Like maybe he understands what it feels like to lose someone you love more than life itself. 

And then there’s the Moulin Rouge. They’ve done an amazing job with the set, all red velvet and gold, and then suddenly there’s Satine and Scott swears she looks _just_ like Tessa. His heart feels like it stops and he misses a note but quickly regains composure, hoping nobody notices. He tries not to look at Satine - the woman playing her, rather, because he thinks it must be exactly what Tessa would’ve looked like had he ever had the opportunity to watch her dance. The woman moves beautifully, more gracefully than he’d ever thought possible. And her eyes - they’re that same glowing green, and it seems like she’s looking right at him… he swears she looks just like… 

_“Fuck.”_ He mutters as he stumbles over another note. He keeps his eyes trained on his sheet music after that, embarrassed that he’d messed up yet again. He’s supposed to be doing this for Tessa, this isn’t the way he’d want to play for her. He wants to be perfect. 

But he finds himself unable to resist looking up at the woman playing Satine every so often. She just reminds him so much of Tessa that he can’t help it. 

And then he plays her song and he _swears_ she’s staring at him the whole time, like her eyes are fixed right on his, and they’re so brilliantly green, he can tell even from the distance between them how beautiful they are, _just like Tessa’s_. 

God, it hurts his heart and he forces himself to play with that hurt in mind, putting everything he has into the song, into _her_ song. It’s a beautiful song, it really is, and it’s everything he feels about her, he hopes she knows that. He hopes she remembers him from time to time, wears his hat to keep warm, thinks of him when she eats crème brûlée. He wonders if she still has the notebook he’d given her, wonders if she still likes peonies best, if she still curses at onions, if Venus is still her favourite sculpture, if she still sings. 

And then the last few notes, and the singer they have tonight, set up somewhat in the corner, is lovely, but she’s not Tessa. He wishes everyone here could hear the song in her voice because surely they’ve never heard anything so beautiful. He feels privileged to have known her, and if he goes his whole life feeling this way, feeling this heartbreak, this unending emptiness, it will have been worth it just to have known her for the time he had. 

When Satine dies onstage, Scott has tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat. She sinks in Christian’s arms and looks exactly like  _Psyché Ranimée par le Baiser de l’Amour, Psyche Revived by the Kiss of Love,_ only instead of Satine being revived, she’s gone forever. 

He says it to himself in his head. _Tessa’s not here. She’s not here, she’s gone_. 

And then lights cut, and Scott makes his move to leave, thanking his fellow musicians in the pit with him. 

He knows it’s a bit rude that he’s not staying for the curtain call, but he feels like he’s about to break into a million pieces and he’d rather not do it in front of a huge audience, so he slips quietly backstage and then out the back door into an alley. He pauses for a moment and leans on the cold brick wall for support. He’s glad it’s winter because he feels like he’s burning up inside, and the cool air is a welcome relief, along with the crunchy snow underfoot. 

He takes a few deep breaths and looks down at the playbill he’d taken with him from his chair. He begins walking out of the alley, flipping through the pages, trying to find the dancers so he can read about the woman who played Satine. The woman who’d reminded him so much of his Tessa. And then he stops breathing altogether because he sees her name right there in print once more, and he feels stupid for thinking that someone else could have _those_ eyes. 

_Principal Dancer and Composer of the Original: “Come What May”, Tessa Virtue as Satine_

He reaches for the wall once more to steady himself just as he hears a door burst open. 

“Scott? Scott!”

He can’t quite breathe but he forces himself to turn to her voice because this is everything he’s been waiting for for so many years. 

“Scott!” She shouts, running toward him. She’s still in her red dress, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, her eyelashes long and her eyes glimmering even in the moonlight. He looks down at her feet and realises that she’s barefoot as she runs through the snow.

And then it’s like the whole world stops because she’s in his arms. He lifts her easily, pulling her up off the ground so her feet won’t be cold. 

There are tears on her face. “I _knew_ it was you.” She whispers, her hands on his cheeks, fingers curling softly against his skin. She rests her forehead against his and he’s panting and crying and laughing and holding her as tightly as he can. He takes a deep breath and looks into her eyes. “Don’t tell me I gotta give you my shoes now, too.” He jokes. It’s the only thing he can think to say and she stutters a laugh because she does still wear his hat. She touches his bottom lip gently with her index finger. 

“I’m so proud of you.” She whispers softly. 

Scott lets out a sharp breath, holding back tears. “You too.” He says. “You were so beautiful up there.”

Her face drops and Scott feels his heart sink. “What’s wrong?” He asks, still holding her. 

“I’m sorry if you didn’t want to see me.” She says. “I just needed to know it was really you.” 

“Didn’t want to see you?” He asks, bewildered. “Tessa, you’re all I’ve wanted to see for the past five years. I just didn’t think… I didn’t think I could be so lucky. I didn’t know it was you… I mean, I knew that you wrote the song, and it’s amazing, Tess, it’s so gorgeous, but I didn’t know you were dancing. I didn’t even know you were back in Canada.” 

Tessa scrunches her nose slightly and Scott has an instinct to kiss her there but he refrains. “You’re not mad?” She asks, and he laughs. 

“Tessa, I was never mad. Heartbroken, maybe.” He says, joking though he truly did feel that way. “Completely devastated, sure.” He winks at her and she blushes which makes him smile and he feels like it’s the first time he’s genuinely smiled in years. “But never mad.” He assures her. I was just so relieved you were okay. I’m so sorry I didn’t know he was… you were hurt.” He still hates to think of it. 

Her fingers are running through the hair on the back of his neck just like she always used to do. It sends a fluttering feeling throughout his whole body. 

“When I read what you wrote in the book…” She trails off and shakes her head. “But you wrote that before everything happened with the police… so I thought maybe it had changed…”

“Not for a second.” He tells her. 

She shakes her head again and Scott can tell she’s fighting tears, so he jumps slightly in surprise when she takes a bit of a reprimanding tone and presses on his chest. “Put me down.” She says and he laughs.

“Not barefoot in the snow.” He tells her. “Here.” He sets her down so that she’s standing on his shoes. She looks down at their feet, where she’s standing on his and he sees her face soften, but when she looks back up at him she hits his chest again. “You sold your _violin_.” She says and he laughs. 

“You forged a _General’s_ signature.” 

She flushes, presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile and looks away for a moment before muttering, “Touché.”

He grins and leans in closer, their foreheads nearly touching and he whispers, “I think you mean truite.” 

He watches the way her eyes crinkle, the way they gleam with amusement, and her whole face lights up as she laughs that same infectious laugh that he’d come to love so much. God, it’s so nice to hear it again. 

“I think your vocabulary could use some work.” She tells him, her voice sweet as wine, “But your pronunciation is perfect.” 

“Yeah?” He asks. “I’ve been working on that one for you. It only took me five years.” He grins at her and she presses herself against him and hugs him tightly. The action is somewhat unexpected, and Scott loses his breath but hugs her back as tightly as he can.

“I missed you.” She whispers, her cheek pressed to his. 

He runs a hand down her back. “Me too, kiddo.” He says softly. “You have no idea how much.” 

She pulls back and smiles gently at him. “I think I do.” She says, her fingers finding their way back into his hair. “I wrote that song for you, you know.” She says. 

He smiles widely. “I hoped you might have.” He replies, somewhat bashfully. He runs his hands up and down her arms. “I’ve never stopped loving you. I never will.” 

She bites her lip and Scott sees the tears in her eyes again, her nose rosy red either as a result of them or from the cold. “Me either.” She tells him, stroking his hair. “There’s no one else.” She swallows hard. “There could never be anyone else.” 

It surprises him somewhat. Here he was all this time hoping that she’d feel the same way about him and it seems like she had all along. He’d been sure that there _would_ be someone else, and he’d made his peace with that, as long as she’d be happy, he’d make himself okay with it, but knowing that there _isn’t…_

“Tessa.” He breathes and he lifts her back up into his arms. 

She squirms and giggles, surprised and delighted by his action, her hands gripping his arms now. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks her desperately and before he even finishes the sentence, she’s pressing herself forward, her lips joining his, and it feels like coming _home_ because it is. All the time he’d spent in at war, in Paris, he’d dreamt of home, and when he’d made it back to Canada, he’d thought he’d feel that sense of comfort, but it’s only now that he realises that his meaning of home has evolved to be defined as something different - some _one_ different. Home to him is no longer a place, it’s Tessa. 

He holds her with one arm and cups the back of her head, pressing her closer. He wants all of her, forever. When they part finally, breathless and flushed, he sets her back down on his feet. 

“So you’re not mad that I disappeared for um… five years?” She asks, saying the last part quietly, like she doesn’t want to draw attention to it if Scott hasn’t realised it’s been that long. He finds it funny because to him it’s felt at least five times that long, but he pulls her in for a hug. It feels so good to be able to hold her again. 

“I’m not mad about anything, Tessa.” He tells her. “You did what you needed to do. I can respect that. You _did_ plagiarize my proclamation of undying love for you though.” He teases, grinning. 

She laughs, and he rejoices at the sound. “I’ll have them credit you in the next performance.” She says. 

He just looks at her for a moment, just admires her because it’s been so long since he’d been able to. He’d missed her freckles, her lips, her voice, her eyes, her smile, her warmth, everything about her. 

He runs a hand across her cheek. 

“And you _didn’t_ disappear, kiddo.” He tells her. 

She looks up at him. “I went somewhere?” She asks softly. 

Scott smiles and nods. “You did, didn’t you?” 

A slight smile pulls at her lips as she nods and Scott kisses her again. 

“I’d love to hear about it.” He says. 

“Come home with me.” She replies quickly, her hands tightening on the lapels of his coat. 

He can’t help smiling and laughing. It’s literally everything he’s wanted for so long now, but he can’t resist teasing her a little. “I thought you didn’t like anyone.” He says.

“You heard the song, didn’t you?” She asks, shyly.

“I did.” He says, grinning. “So you _do_ like one person, then.” 

“I do.” She says quietly, her fingers trailing down his chest. “I love one person.” 

He sighs, tears back in his eyes. He’s never felt so _happy_. The woman with strawberry lips, _la dame qui disparaît,_ his Psyche, Satine for tonight, but most importantly, _Tessa_ \- loves him. And that’s all that matters. 

“And you said _I_ was the mushy one.” He jokes, his voice breaking. 

She smiles. “I can be mushy too… for the right person.” She smirks at him. 

“Come here.” He chokes over the lump in his throat. He lifts her and she squeals happily, wrapping her arms around his neck once more as he begins to carry her back toward the door. “Home?” She asks him. She looks _so_ at peace and somehow even more beautiful than Scott remembers. 

“Shoes first.” He says. 

“And then?” She smiles. 

He kisses her cheek, nuzzling her nose. “And then the rest of our lives.” 


End file.
